Stafford yawned for the four hundredth time, so it seemed, and squinted into the harsh light illuminating the folding table occupying the center of his apartment. His body craved sleep, but he needed to conclude his tasks before dawn, preparing for perhaps the most important day of his life. The day he would prove his irreplaceable worth to the Powers-That-Be, once and for all.
Perspiration seeped from his forehead, burning the corners of his eyes. He wished he had air conditioning, but his low-rent apartment wouldn’t even power a window unit. He couldn’t even run a box fan at the moment. It would make a mess of the components laid out in precise order across his work surface. He needed to endure the unseasonable balminess and humidity until his efforts came to fruition.
He prepared the same way, every time. White craft paper from a hundred-foot roll covered the rectangular folding table, taped down over the edges. On the left end of the table he’d placed a box of reloadable casings, cleaned and ready. Next. to them, lead-alloy tips, each stamped with “ERM” as an homage to Elliot Rodger’s Manifesto. Their spiritual leader.
To the right of the shells, the all-important reloading press, clamped to the edge of the table. Next, the dispenser and scale, essential for precise, efficient measurement of military-grade powder. Digital calipers rested on the table behind to measure cartridge length. Even though he reused his cartridges and measured each of them several times, one could never be sure, and he would settle for nothing less than perfection.
Which is why he preferred old-fashioned cordite over the more modern smokeless powders favored by so many beginners. Harder to find and only through back channels from tiny, independent artisans who remained committed to doing things right instead of fast and cheap. Cordite exploded with absolute predictability without damaging his shells or his weapon. Nothing less would do.
Then the little stuff that made all the difference for rifle ammo: the case trimmer to remove excess brass from the mouth of the casing, an unfortunate artifact of the home-reloading process. A deburring tool to smooth the rough edges after trimming. A casing lube kit. Reloading blocks to store the finished rounds before loading them into the magazine. A priming tool. And the magazines, ready to be fed fresh rounds.
He should’ve prepared all of this sooner—right after the previous event, as the Army had trained him. Not waiting until the last minute, the night before his next job, at the peak of his exhaustion and stress.
However, circumstances forced his hand. The organization made it clear that they would pass him by and award the vacant command post to someone else—and soon—unless he demonstrated his worth, and his leadership abilities, pronto. Showed that he could plan, strategize, analyze all the angles, prepare, and take quick action. Lead by bold example. Show courage by taking risks. Generate results.
He inserted the next empty shell into the priming tool, lowered the lever that pushed the cartridge into the cylinder that ensured a perfect shape. He checked its size, and confirmed it didn’t need trimming. He spotted a tiny burr, and removed it. Then he inserted the round into the powder dispenser, its hopper prefilled with cordite. After double-checking the setting that determined the precise amount of fill, he pressed the button. Once filled, he weighed the round on his scale. Perfect.
Then onto the press, which sealed the casing around the lead-alloy tip. Weighed the finished product again to ensure the integrity of the round before placing it in the finishing blocks.
Integrity. What mattered most in assembling a round also mattered most in serving one’s country, one’s comrades-in-arms, one’s future. The future of mankind—including the unborn.
Which is why he went to the trouble, and stayed up later than he should, to make his own ammunition instead of buying it from a dealer or, God forbid, Walmart. He needed to have rock-solid faith in the integrity of his rounds, as he did in his weapon, in his cause, and in himself. After all, if he lacked that faith—in any of those things, but especially in himself—how could he ask his brothers in arms to entrust their faith in him?
He repeated the process several more times, then wiped each round free of any excess dust or, God forbid, fingerprints. Then he donned latex gloves and loaded nine rounds into both magazines. He wouldn’t need even one full mag to do this job. Still, better to over-prepare than under.
The process took until almost 1:00 a.m., his weariness growing with every pull of the press, each measurement of every gram of cordite. With this weariness grew his resolve. His self-assurance that what he would accomplish the next day would not only eliminate more enemies of the cause, but prove his readiness to lead that cause.
He could hardly wait.
Thursday morning, Val trudged into Sergeant Petroni’s office a few minutes before 9:00 a.m. and set her achy, weary body into a chair.
Petroni glanced up at her. “You look like hell. What’d you do to your eye?”
Val touched the bandage over her cut brow, wincing. “All part of incel infiltration.”
“I’d love to hear all about it, but aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting?” Petroni asked.
Val winced again. “Simpson kicked me out yesterday and told me not to come back. He doesn’t appreciate being contradicted by actual evidence.”
“I’m sure when you corrected his erroneous assessment of the facts, you did so with the utmost of professional courtesy and tact,” Petroni said with a smirk.
“Possibly not the utmost.” Val suppressed a grin. Her boss might misinterpret it and think she didn’t take the situation with the appropriate gravity.
Then again, perhaps “misinterpret” wasn’t the most precise word to describe it.
“You got something to add to the meeting?” Petroni continued working on whatever printed document lay open on her desk.
“Fresh evidence, linking the VeroniCare and Friday the Thirteenth cases.”
The sergeant nodded. “Tell Tackle Box you’re there on Chief’s orders. Last time I checked, he outranks detectives on the org chart.” Petroni waved her out.
Val marched straight down the stairs to the second floor meeting room. She held her breath and pushed open the door.
“Get out,” Simpson said before she took a single step into the room. He strode toward her, a few long steps from the center of the room, carrying his idiotic blue tackle box.
“Detective, I have evidence—”
“Put it in the case file,” he said. “I’m tired of you disrupting my meetings. We have work to do and we don’t get it done with you here.”
Val stood her ground, despite Simpson moving within three feet of her. No way she’d back down. If she could go three rounds with Kalie, she could stand up to this old sack. She glanced around the room. The men in the U-shaped array of chairs locked eyes on the two of them, many enjoying the spectacle, judging from the looks on their faces. “I’m here on Chief McMahon’s orders,” Val said.
“Prove it. In writing.”
“He ordered the WAVE Squad—”
“Are you the only member of your unit qualified to be here?” Simpson said with a sneer. “Oh, wait. Aren’t you the least qualified member? Yeah, I thought so. Now get out before I write you up.”
Val rolled her eyes. “Detective, I have information that—”
“Case file,” he said. “I don’t have time—”
Phones began ringing all around the room, Simpson’s included. Val’s cell chimed as well. Gil.
Simpson’s face drained of color. He seemed to conclude, along with Val, what this meant, even before answering.
She took the call anyway, stepping into the hallway in case she was wrong and Gil had called for personal reasons. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Second shooting,” Gil said. “This one’s at Planned Parenthood. Three down, no fatalities yet. Shooter’s still loose. Can you get down there?”
“On my way.” Val rushed toward the stairs. Behind her, inside the meeting room, shouting and chaos. A perfect metaphor for Simpson’s investigation.