The Man Who Lost His Shadow, page 18
They nodded, having worked enough assignments to know what that meant.
“How come there are so few cops inside the building?”
The man in charge had a faint grin. “There’s a massive protest outside. Most of the cops are trying to maintain a police line in front of the Precinct.”
“That’s convenient,” one of them mused, and the others nodded. They were professionals, but even they knew how to appreciate a bit of good luck in a situation.
“We will infiltrate the Precinct in thirty minutes’ time,” the leader of the group said, checking his watch. “We have the right uniforms and paperwork in order. Once inside, we follow the same protocol as the CDC Mission. Remember, the target is the suspect. And the only acceptable outcome is elimination. Anything short of that is a failure.”
The men nodded and broke up to gather the equipment that had been assembled for them. There were pristine police uniforms, complete with guns and badges. It would pass any sort of inspection short of a scan through a national database. The men coolly stripped down and changed into the uniforms, transforming into a group of police officers within minutes.
The leader was about to head out of the room, and into a van that had been quickly remodeled with police insignia when a colleague ran down the corridor and flagged him. “I think there’s something you need to see,”
“There’s no time right now,” the man said, checking his watch. “Send it to my phone. I’ll check it on the way.”
The colleague was insistent. “I think this alters our plans a bit. We’ll need to adapt. You have to see this.”
He led him back into the room, where a T.V. screen was now being rolled in and set up. “What is it?” he asked impatiently.
That at the same moment, the law enforcement officers inside the 102nd Precinct were asking the same question. It started a few minutes earlier when Captain Wilson started receiving strange reports from his men posted outside. It was nearly impossible to understand what they were saying because of the protestors’ thunderous chanting, but he finally got a sense that there were more people arriving onto the scene. Which in and of itself didn’t faze him too much, for once the count reached 1,200, anymore more would be just as bad. And so he grumbled acknowledgment but didn’t counter with any new orders.
And then the radio continued to cackle as the officers scattered outside the Precinct began reporting that more protestors were showing up and that it was cause for trouble. Half their words weren’t intelligible, and finally, Captain Wilson barked half a dozen times for one of them to get back into the Precinct to tell him the news in person.
It took about two minutes for the side exit doors to open, and the officer rushed in, looking drained yet alarmed. Everyone watched him expectantly, wondering what was worrying him so much, and his first words didn’t appear to warrant such an emotion.
“There are protestors coming from the Eastside, sir. They’re filling up that side quickly. We’re boxed in.”
Captain Wilson was annoyed and slightly disappointed by the lack of drama in the officer’s statement. “What the hell does it matter, man!” He snapped. “It’s not like we could take a drive outside before. Let them fill up the Eastside. The assholes will eventually quit, or the National Guard will be called in. Either way, we just stay put.”
The officer, who was still panting a little, looked confused. “But sir!” he cried, wondering why his Captain wasn’t more alarmed. “These – these aren’t the same protestors! They’re a different bunch!”
That didn’t make any sense to any of the officers in the Precinct, except for one of the FBI Agents whose job it was to scan the media channels. He rushed, not to the Captain, but to Agent Samuel Harris who was standing nearby and handed him a tablet.
“You have to see this, sir,” he muttered, less dramatically but with a strain of concern in his voice.
Agent Samuel Harris took a minute to react, for he was handed a disjointed online article to read, but when he finally did, he sounded worried. “Captain, we might have a bigger problem on our hands.”
They switched channels on the television in the Precinct Hall, from the normal cable coverage to a local station.
“Turn up the volume!” The Captain barked seconds before it was.
The news anchors on the channel looked even more confused than they were, as they shuffled through pages that were being dumped in front of them from off-screen. The more capable of the two, a middle-aged lady, somehow managed to piece together the story.
“Er – this – well, this is a breaking news story. Apologies to our viewers – it’s – it’s still developing now, and – and we’re just getting word of an – a manifesto? – a manifesto that was published online over twenty minutes ago. It seems that none of the major news channels have picked this up so far, we – we were only informed about this by one of our regular viewers. It – it seems this – this manifesto has been going extremely, extremely viral online. More than three million people have read it so far, and – and it’s pretty extreme and – oh dear…. okay, we’ll – there’s a lot to unpack here right now…”
“Does anyone know what manifesto she’s talking about?” The lead ATF Agent asked.
It was the same question that millions of Americans were asking at that moment, all over the country. Tweets began to pile up, as online users started launching into explanations and sharing information that developed every minute. Google search results spiked for the words manifesto, and shooting, and Bremmer Plaza Hotel. Two minutes later, one of the premier news channels had their fierce debate rudely interrupted by the anchor, who quickly began to read off the teleprompter that was being fed by harried editors on the spot.
The story was breaking all over the country, and the crowd outside the 102nd Precinct was beginning to swell. The police officers started panicking as they noticed the difference in the appearance of the crowd to their left, to the east of the Precinct, and Captain Wilson couldn’t concentrate as his radio started jamming with requests for further orders.
News anchors in studios began interrupting their regular news stories and immediately reminded their viewers that this was breaking news. A manifesto had just been released online, one of them said. In another channel, the news anchors rushed back into their seats and the commercial break was cut short. The only thing the producer yelled to them before signaling for the cameras to turn on, was that the shooter had released a manifesto.
Another producer, who was speed reading the manifesto itself as he stood behind the camera, quickly grabbed a nearby sheet of white paper and scribbled on it in giant handwriting. He held it up in front of the anchor, who eagle-eyed viewers would have noticed squinting, as she pieced together the words written.
“Folks,” she said slowly, “this is called…..the manifesto…..the manifesto written has the title….the shooting to end all shootings.”
“The shooting to end all shootings!” Another anchor who had a little more time to prepare off-screen, boomed, throwing his hands up for effect. “This is huge, ladies and gentlemen. We are live to inform you of a manifesto that has been circulating online for the past thirty minutes, and has already racked up over 7 million views. People everywhere are getting swept up in this manifesto! The hashtag Shootingtoendallshootings is trending on Twitter right now!”
Every officer in the Precinct was on their phone, swiping upwards as they read through the five-page manifesto. Their faces were a mixture of shock, disgust, and disbelief.
“This is messed up…” Merson muttered as he finished reading it. “This guy thinks he’s a goddamn revolutionary.”
Dr. Marsha Halpern, who’d finished the article two minutes earlier, had come to the same conclusion and then developed it further. She scanned her phone for news articles and shook her head. Agent Harris looked to her for an explanation.
“This is bad, Agent,” she said. “This is….whoever wrote this. This manifesto….it makes it sound like the attack on the NRA was in defense of lives, rather than an attack. It’s far-left propaganda, talking about how the shooter sacrificed his own life for the sake of the country and his countrymen. This is dangerous talk, and we’re seeing the reaction.”
They weren’t seeing the full reaction, for it was impossible for a group of men in a Police Precinct to scan every website and forum on the far left cyberspace, that’d started flooding with messages from young men and women who were mesmerized by the manifesto, and what it championed. Millions of messages were posted that celebrated the man behind the shooting and his martyrdom for the sake of a better future. They cheered for a mass shooting that punished the very people who they believed fueled all previous mass shootings. A giant dose of karma, it was declared, and a brilliant way to right the wrong.
But that wasn’t all. As new anchors slowly found out, there was another reaction to the manifesto. It had energized a huge population of young men and women in the country who were tired of the 2nd Amendment, and the ascension of far-right politics, and itched to fight back against it.
“How the hell can anyone celebrate a mass shooting?” Agent Murphy asked, more incredulous than disgusted.
“People can celebrate anything,” Dr. Halpern said softly, shaking her head, “as long as it’s framed the right way. And this – this is framed in the perfect way. They’re not celebrating death. They’re celebrating the death of those who advocated for death all this while. Suddenly, for a lot of people around the country, the NRA and the Republican establishment became guilty of murder. It’s not wrong to kill a murderer. In fact, it’s downright justified in their eyes.”
“Jesus Christ!” Captain Wilson rasped. His radio continued to crackle, and he managed to respond. “Hold your position. Hold your position. Who the hell are those protestors out there, Doc?” he asked impatiently.
Dr. Halpern checked her phone grimly. “They’re Antifa. The far-left group that has been agitating against the NRA and White Supremacy and everything else on the far right. Agent Harris, these men are very, very dangerous.”
“Are they armed?” Agent Harris asked, both to the Doctor and the Captain. The Captain spoke into his radio, but the Doctor shook her head. “They don’t have guns. They don’t use guns. But there was a riot at UC Berkley two years back. They had sticks and stuff. But they’ve evolved a lot since then. It’s not their arsenal that worries me, Agent. It’s their ethics. In their eyes, the far-right is evil, and there’s no wrong in attacking evil in any way possible.”
One of the FBI Agents stepped forward and held up his tablet for them to see. It was video footage from outside the Precinct. The law enforcement officers moved in to get a better look, and their faces dropped in horror. On-screen was a sea of men with rifles in the air, and less than a hundred meters away, separated by about fifty tiny blue dots, was a growing mass of black-clad Antifa members.
“How many are there?” Agent Harris asked aloud, looking for estimates.
“A hundred? Three hundred max.”
“The size doesn’t bloody matter, does it,” Agent Murphy asked, staring at the screen. “If they start fighting, we have a fucking riot on our hands!”
Agent Harris pulled out his phone and pointed to the Captain as he started dialing. “Captain, call the Commissioner. Tell him to send every damn cop he’s got. We need reinforcements. Any person in uniform will do. I’m calling the Justice Department. We might need the National Guard if this gets out of hand.”
“Isn’t that a little extreme?” The lead ATF Agent asked. “I mean, the National Guard?”
His answer was on screen, as the anchor yelled loudly. “Jesus Christ, is that? –”
It was. On the corner of the screen, amongst the mass of black, there was a tiny flicker of a flame. It doubled in size immediately, and five seconds later, as the men in the Precinct watched live, flew through the air, sailing like a firefly, before slamming down in the middle of the sea of rifles.
The roar the men heard was not from the speakers of the tablet.
“Fuck!” Agent Harris cried. “Call for backup! Now!”
Chapter Eighteen
Dr. Marsha Halpern knew about shock. She’d learned the medical definition of the word about a decade ago, back in Medical School. Her professors explained it to her. And so did the textbooks she’d pored over.
None of them came close to letting her understand the reality of it.
“Get back in here!”
Dr. Halpern could have logically analyzed the situation and realized what was going on. She was in shock. In fact, it was possible that she was analyzing herself. After all, there was a sense of detachment, as though she was merely watching the imagery through a portal, with her entire body being nothing more than an elaborate camera placed on a tripod.
“Get back you fucks! Get back now!”
Her heartbeat was rapid. But she was unable to truly feel it. The world around got quieter. Duller. As though her mind had reduced the volume a little.
“Doc, stay clear of the windows!”
All at once, it came rushing back to her. The volume shot back to normal. The colors around her were bright and sharp again. And Dr. Halpern realized she was standing next to one of the large windows in the hall. Her eyes managed to focus on the imagery outside, and for a few seconds, her brain refused to accept it.
There were fires burning in the street outside. Almost a thousand men were engaged in brutal fights. And then there was the incessant interruption of gunfire. The shots were angry little claps, and the doctor couldn’t understand at first why the guns were making such sounds.
And then Agent Harris grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Stay sharp, Doc. We need to stay sharp!”
The front doors of the Precinct were open, and every man in uniform was near it, guns drawn.
“Don’t fire dammit. Just stay calm. Get back in!” Captain Wilson roared, and finally, the doctor understood he was shouting to the remaining police officers standing outside.
“Why – why is he calling them in?” she asked, and one of the ATF Agents next to her simply pointed towards the window. Right outside, in plain view of dozens of law enforcement agents, three black-clad Antifa protestors were beating up a man with his own rifle.
“It’s a mess outside. We need to stay in till back up arrives!” Agent Harris declared as he dialed his phone again. “What’s the update?”
The last of the police officers managed to get in, and the Captain roared for the doors to be shut. Suddenly the noise level within the Precinct dropped, and everyone managed to catch their breath.
“How long before backup gets here?” The Captain asked, walking towards the center where Agent Harris was still on his phone.
“Fifteen minutes. Half an hour max,” the Agent relayed. “Okay, keep me updated,” he said before hanging up. “Listen up everyone, we just need to stay put till backup arrives. This is a federal situation, and I’ll be taking responsibility. It is not safe to go out there. We’re simply outnumbered.”
The doctor was confused and looked around for clarification. She wanted to ask why the agent was talking about going out, and then it hit her from the expressions of the police officers still standing by the entrance, unable to take their eyes off the view through the windows.
“Sir, with all due respect, it’s deadly out there. Someone might get killed,” one of the senior officers spoke up, and the rest of the men nodded. The Agent looked at the Captain, who stepped up. “Alright, you men know that I more than anyone else would normally not sit by and let violence play out like this in front of us. But this is too dangerous. We don’t have the gear to handle the situation.”
One of the officers was about to protest but the Captain snapped. “Batons and guns are not going to work, dammit. What if one of us gets attacked and a gun goes off? You want that mess on your hands? For god sakes, right now they’re just bloodying themselves with sticks and rubber bullets. That’s all. And that’s fine, as far as I’m concerned. Let the fuckers beat each other up a bit. We’ll get in and clean up the mess when it all quietens down. But we cannot step out. Not with live ammunition. In such close proximity? It’ll be a disaster. Trust me, as long as it’s just rubber –”
His last words were lost to the deafening crackle of gunfire. His police officers instinctively crouched and pulled out their guns, without even realizing where the sound was coming from. A moment later the gunfire rang out again, and the men pointed their guns in the direction of the Precinct’s front doors.
“Fuck!” Arnold Finch cried out, having made the connection. “The teacher was telling the truth. He was telling the fucking truth!”
For a moment no one understood what that meant. And then all at once, everyone rushed to take cover as more gunfire rang out and the windows shattered.
Captain Wilson fell to the ground, pulled down by his most loyal officers. He fumbled for a moment and then caught hold of the radio and screamed into it. “10 – 4, 10 – 4, we are under attack. I repeat the Precinct is under attack!”
The Dispatcher’s voice crackled, “What’s the situation?”
Captain Wilson’s face contorted with fury as a few of his men returned fire before finding cover again. “The 102nd Precinct is under terrorist attack, for fuck sake! Send back up!”
The Precinct fell silent as the sound of gunfire halted. Everyone held their breath, tuning out the sound of rifles firing rubber bullets and protestors throwing Molotov cocktails. Right now, nobody in the Police station cared about the riot. They were only focused on the five terrorists outside who were trying to break in.
“Captain, is there a plan B?” Agent Harris asked, leaning against a desk. The Captain thought for a moment. “You mean to evacuate?”
“I don’t know the area around, or even this building, Captain. You tell me. Is there a way we could transfer the suspect out of here?”
“I don’t think so,” Captain Wilson said, feeling less certain than normal. “We won’t be able to use any vehicles, the riot’s all over the place. Besides, isn’t it better to hunker down and wait it out?”
