Secession: The Storm Read online

  After flashing his badge to a guy who looked to be in charge, the federal agent stated, “I understand your station just received a call from our suspect. I need to know what’s going on… what he said.”

  “Really?” replied the surprised producer. “I thought that was a prank call. That was really him?”

  “Yes, it was. What did he want?”

  “He said he wanted Ross to come to his home and talk to him. He said he had documentation that would explain and justify why he was doing all this. We hung up on him… we thought it was a prank.”

  “Who’s Ross?” Zach asked.

  “Ross Garcia, our senior field reporter. Don’t you watch the news, friend? Ross is probably one of the most recognizable faces in Houston.”

  Zach turned to Perkins and chimed in, “That explains it. He wants a face he knows… someone he’s sure isn’t an undercover cop.”

  Perkins began pacing, not sure how to handle this new event. Again, it was against procedure to allow any civilian to endanger himself. On the other hand, the reporter might be able to provide them with valuable information about the inside of the suspect’s home.

  “If I okay Ross talking to the suspect, would he be willing to do it?”

  “I sure would,” answered the new voice, a young man with perfect hair and bright, white teeth stepping around the van.

  “You do realize this guy has killed over a dozen police officers so far? He’s booby-trapped his home, yard and who knows what else. We’re not talking about a stable individual here.”

  “I was embedded with the Airborne in the Iraq war. I reported from Afghanistan for 18 months. I know what the dangers are.”

  “Call him back,” Perkins decided. “If your man is willing, I’ll let him pass through. I want one thing though. I want him wearing a camera and a microphone.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” the reporter answered. “I’ll tell him I have to film the meeting for the station. He might not let me video everything, but who knows until we try.”

  “I get the tape,” Perkins continued. “You have my word I’ll return it as soon as the legal eagles allow it. You’ll have an exclusive.”

  This time the producer spoke up, “No deal. You can have a copy, but we get to go with whatever our man brings out.”

  Perkins rubbed his chin, knowing it was a marginal call. In his years with the agency, he’d seen examples of press interaction that had ended up both positive and negative. Criminals would often confess to a reporter, but they also could muddy the waters. There was also the chance that this could morph into a hostage situation, and that would make things even more complicated. But it couldn’t get much worse.

  “Deal,” the FBI man finally decided.

  The producer dialed the station, a quick set of instructions resulting in the primary listed number returning Abe Hendricks’s call. When he answered, the receptionist patched Ross in.

  “This is Ross Garcia, sir. I’m sorry we got disconnected earlier. How can I help you?”

  Despite only speaking to the suspect for a short time, Perkins recognized the voice on the other end.

  “My name is Abe,” stated the voice. “I have information that I want to be made public. I’m sure your station will find it interesting, to say the least. You have my word that if you come alone and don’t try anything stupid, you won’t be harmed.”

  “Okay, Abe,” the reporter replied smoothly. “How should I approach your home?”

  There was a slight chuckle on the other end. “Just walk up to the front door, son. You’ll have to maneuver around this junk heap the cops just left sitting here, but there’s nothing I can do about the mess right now.”

  “I’m going to bring a camera with me. I need to document our discussion for my producer.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line, and for a moment, those gathered thought Ross had gone too far.

  “I suppose that’s okay,” replied Abe. “But you can only film where I say. I know the cops are going to be studying that video, and you can’t blame me for not wanting to help them end my life.”

  “When can I come over?”

  “Right now is fine,” the voice responded. “How soon can you be here?”

  Zach stepped forward, whispering something in the reporter’s ear. After a quick nod, Ross responded. “Abe, before we discuss that, there’s someone here who claims to know you. He says he was in your father’s home the day everything went wrong. He says he saved your life. He wants to speak to you.”

  This time there was a long pause, Perkins beginning to get angry over the interloper’s unexpected and unplanned move.

  “What’s his name?” Abe asked, his voice hesitant and suspicious.

  Ross held the cell phone out for Zach to respond. “Mr. Hendricks, I was the man in the western hat who pushed the shotgun aside. I know you may not remember, but I also carried you out of the house and found medical care.”

  Abe’s response sounded shaky. “Yes, I remember. You were there… you were a witness to the whole thing. Who are you?”

  “I am a Texas Ranger, Mr. Hendricks. My name is Zachariah Bass. I’m sorry I never followed up on your injuries or what happened that day in New Orleans. I was sent back to Texas the next morning, and quite frankly, I left it up to the local authorities to sort everything out.”

  “Tell you what, Mr. Texas Ranger, I’m actually glad you’re here. You see, what I’m about to tell that reporter is going to be pretty shocking, and having a reputable eyewitness to back up my story can’t do any harm.”

  “So how do you want this to play out, Mr. Hendricks? You have to know the FBI is going to get rough. You’ve already hurt them badly. How do we end this?”

  “Send in the reporter… alone. I’ll let you all decide how this is going to end after everyone has had a chance to hear my story.”

  Aaron was experiencing one of those rare moments where self-preservation was overriding the needs of his candidate. His reputation in political circles was that of a man who put “the job” ahead of any personal needs.

  But not this evening.

  Camped in front of the TV, intently watching the siege in Texas, he had played a nonstop game of political chess since learning the identity of the man in Houston. Moving the strategic pieces around the board of public opinion, he’d tried to anticipate every feint and counter.

  The pro-gun lobby was zealous, powerful, and well-funded. Early on, Heidi’s campaign had adopted a strategy to circumvent, avoid, and dance around the issue. Most of her inner-circle was composed of resolute believers in universal background checks, restricting military grade weapons, and limiting access to certain types of ammunition. However, the calculus-based marketing models had demonstrated that publicizing such a position would erode the delicate coalition of voters in her corner.

  The issue was just another example of how fickle the American public had become. By a huge margin, most people supported some measure of extended background checks. By the same margin, Americans supported the interpretation of the Second Amendment that protected individual rights to gun ownership. For a politician, it was a maddening dichotomy.

  Were it not for the standoff in Houston commanding the nation’s attention, he’d be in full damage control mode right now. Heidi’s words at the press conference had taken her out of the neutral zone, and already their opponent’s camp was leveraging the opportunity.

  Salvation, via spin, deflection, and a tug at the public’s sympathy, was doable. He could easily explain her remarks away, the reaction of a distraught individual who had just suffered an attempt on her life and a plane crash. Who wouldn’t be a little tainted? It was understandable and forgivable. They could release some vaguely worded outline of Heidi’s position on gun control, and it would all fade quickly.

  The potential exposure of Aaron’s own involvement with the New Orleans gun grab skewed everything. While it hadn’t received any media coverage just yet, the reverberations of that disc
losure would be swift and harsh.

  Aaron’s mind conjured up images of his face plastered all over the media. “Meet the man behind the atrocities that occurred in New Orleans!” they would broadcast. “Here is the evil maniac who is responsible for Abraham Hendricks’ killing dozens of people. And this demon is about to become the president’s chief of staff and most trusted adviser! Off with Heidi Clifton’s head! Hang ’em high!”

  Am I overacting? he wondered. Probably not.

  In the months that followed the New Orleans confiscations, any debate regarding guns in Washington had been fundamentally skewed. What had once been an unfounded fear of government tyranny now had a poster child, a factual, inarguable example. The great gun grab was thrown in the face of every legislator who even hinted at restricting Americans’ right to firearms.

  The Assault Weapons Ban had expired just before Katrina ravaged the Gulf Coast, the law’s sunset clause making practically every type of semi-automatic weapon available to the public. Numerous attempts were made to reinstate the ban, but all failed. In every case, the New Orleans confiscation was used as a hammer to pound the reenactment of the law into dismal defeat.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, there were 22 state laws passed in the wake of what the pro-gun lobby had taken to calling, the “Katrina tyranny.” In 2006, under extreme pressure, President Bush signed the Disaster Recovery Personal Protection Act, a new federal law that many in the gun control camp believed was a significant step backwards for their cause because it reinforced the most conservative interpretation of the Second Amendment.

  By some people’s perspectives, the local government’s action post-Katrina was the single biggest setback for the gun-control cause in the history of the United States. Even the tragic, mass-killings that occurred at schools and theaters couldn’t return the genie to the lamp.

  “Insanity is repeating the same mistakes over and over again while expecting different results,” he’d told Heidi early on in the campaign. “We have to remove gun control from our dialog. The party wants it that way. I want it that way, and the people obviously lean that way.”

  And it had worked – until now.

  Watching the events unfold in Houston, Aaron felt the stirrings of anger begin to build. The networks were showing stretcher after stretcher being loaded into ambulances. The death toll was mounting; the dedicated men and women of law enforcement were being slaughtered in record numbers because a clearly deranged man had unfettered access to nearly limitless firepower.

  “The NRA should be embarrassed,” he whispered to the television. “The Senators and members of Congress that fought gun control should hang their heads in shame.”

  But it wouldn’t play. Americans would be outraged for a few weeks, shedding tears as procession after procession of flag-draped coffins paraded across their television screens. Eulogies and funerals would tug at the hearts of millions, but it wouldn’t be enough. After all, it wasn’t the guns that killed those brave men and women; it was the lunatic who pulled the trigger. While emotions ran high today, that right-sided logic reasoning was sure to follow in its aftermath.

  It was then that an odd thought occurred to Aaron. He found himself hoping the standoff in Houston would last, at least past Election Day. He felt a twinge of guilt over the realization that the carnage occurring in Texas would actually serve to help Heidi’s cause while at the same time providing justification of his involvement in New Orleans.

  The ringing of his cell phone pulled him away from his line of thinking. “Hey, Aaron,” the voice of the campaign’s lead pollster sounded. “I just got in a batch of new numbers. Heidi is up another point at the national level. Great news, huh?”

  “Sure is. Let’s just hope it stays that way.”

  “Neilsen and USA Today both have her holding at 53 to 47. Still inside the margin of error,” continued the excited voice. “I don’t think she hurt herself all that badly at the press conference.”

  Aaron managed a smile, not wanting to put a damper on the excited man’s work. “I’ll let Heidi know,” he replied. “I’m sure the news will make her feel better.”

  He experienced a sense of relief after disconnecting the call, chiding himself over being paranoid and making a big mental ado for no good reason.

  “Sometimes,” he whispered to the television, “the smart move is to do nothing, but that’s not a chance I can take….”

  Ross drove his own personal car past the police barricade. One of the cameramen had provided him with a handheld digital camera, complete with microphone and light. Switching on the diminutive device, he positioned it on the dash, allowing the best vantage for recording the trip. It would make excellent background video.

  His palms were wet on the steering wheel, a fact that didn’t faze the experienced newsman one single bit. The source of his stress wasn’t due to encountering the man who would surely go down as one of the most violent killers in American history. No, Ross was nervous because this was his chance at the big time… a doorway to New York and the national stage. He just couldn’t fuck it up.

  After passing through the perimeter of cops, it was just over a mile trek to the Hendricks residence. Driving through the upscale neighborhood of tree-lined streets and well-manicured yards, Ross worked hard to squelch his anxiety. He kept trying to occupy his mind with the rewards that would come his way if this interview went smoothly – kept telling himself that he’d been in worse places, taken bigger risks. When the address of the barricaded home appeared through the windshield, all attempts to control his fear quickly evaporated.

  He couldn’t help but draw the parallel to Iraq. There was a burned-out armored vehicle, black streaks of charred grass, and rubble from the crushed wall. He could clearly recognize the broken glass and splintered wood that dominated the front of the home. Trenches of disturbed earth offered evidence of explosions. It was a battlefield, no different from those that dominated the world’s hot spots – right here in his hometown.

  Parking on the street, he wiped his sweaty hands and exited the car. He had managed three steps before he realized he’d forgotten his camera. “Come on, you dumbshit… get your act together,” he mumbled while retrieving the critical piece of gear.

  His legs were weak and wobbly as he approached the porch. The smell of burnt rubber and thick cordite wasn’t helping at all. Ten steps away from the stoop, he yelled at the house, “Mr. Hendricks? Mr. Hendricks? Ross Garcia here.”

  “I see you, Mr. Garcia,” acknowledged the same voice he’d heard over the phone. “I’ve been watching you all along. Come on up to the porch and chill out – I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Ross did as he was told, stepping around the lifeless Caiman and continuing his hike up the steps. Once on the veranda, he noticed what sounded like a series of deadbolt locks disengaging, auditory evidence of a front door obviously secured to withstand a serious assault. He glanced down to spot the blinking light on the camera, evidence that it was already recording his journey.

  The door swung open, the shadowy outline of a man at the edge of the threshold. “Step over here where I can see you, please.”

  The reporter watched as Abe lifted some device to his eye and scanned him up and down. After a few seconds, a bright light blinded the newshound, again the beam moving up and down his person.

  “Please turn off your camera, Mr. Garcia. I’ll let you turn it back on in a few minutes.”

  Ross did as instructed.

  “Come on in,” Abe motioned, never showing himself. “I apologize about the mess, but you know those police snipers… they’re a messy bunch.”

  Ross stepped through the threshold, the destruction apparent even in the darkened interior of the home. “Follow me, please,” directed the voice from the shadow.

  Abe led the reporter through the shattered living room and into the well-appointed office. A computer screen’s blue glow yielded the only light in the study. The host motioned for the journalist to take a seat, and then paced around
the desk and perched in his ergonomically designed chair. The eerie light of the monitor provided Ross his first glimpse of the man who held center stage of news broadcasts from Maine to California.

  Abe pointed at the laptop and apologized, “I hope you’ll understand if I can’t give you my undivided attention, sir. I’m monitoring a network of cameras and sensors – just in case my FBI friends down the street figure now is a good time to mount another attempt on my home. No offense, but I wouldn’t put it past them to decide I was distracted by your visit.”

  Not knowing what to say, Ross merely nodded, waiting for his host to launch into what he anticipated would be some sort of political diatribe or paranoid manifesto.

  “You can turn on your camera now, son. Let’s get this over with,” directed the calm voice from across the mahogany desk.