Chapter Thirty-Four

Val emerged from a far-too-brief three-hour slumber in her own bed, heat and sunlight already filling the lonely space of her garage bedroom. She’d dreamed of holding Gil close, hearing his deep baritone murmur reassuring words into her ear. Instead she woke up hugging her pillow, five minutes ahead of her alarm.

Ah, well. At least she didn’t dream of right-wing terrorists and unfriendly chat rooms.

She texted “Good morning, handsome” to Gil. When he didn’t answer straight away, she remembered their staggered shifts. He’d worked from 2:00 to 6:00 a.m. and would return for a twelve-hour shift at noon, so he wouldn’t rise for another hour or two. She needed to be at the Armory by 8:00, so she slammed down a quick breakfast, showered, and dressed in her Clayton PD uniform.

On her way out the door, though, she peeked in on her father, still asleep in his own bed. He’d mentioned attending some of the day’s festivities, and that sent a shiver down her spine. Val wanted to warn him off without revealing inside information that could compromise their investigation.

Recalling her run from the night before, inspiration struck. She wrote him a quick note:

Saw lots of beer/wine/etc. vendors setting up at the Waterfront - no doubt at parade too - maybe best to celebrate at home this year? Have fun today. Love, V

She needed a different reason to keep the rest of the family away from danger. Given how stubborn they could be, she’d need a good excuse. None came right to mind, and she didn’t want to be late to work. She made a mental note and drove to the Armory.

Travis Blake, a giant cinderblock of a man with short, sandy-colored hair graying at the temples, waved her into an “Official Use Only” parking area. “Dawes!” He hustled over to greet her once she parked and gripped her hand in a power-shake. “Glad you could make it. Wait, what the hell? Where’s your sidearm?”

Val clapped him on the shoulder and freed her hand from his grip. “Cyrus still hasn’t cleared me. Will that be a problem? Petroni said you’d planned something non-lethal for my assignment.”

“Damn, I had you on sniper duty,” he said with a grin. “Okay, I guess you can stand next to the mayor and take her bullet.”

“Glad I wore my Kevlar. So, give me the lay of the land here.”

Travis walked her over to the dais where the mayor and a handful of other local dignitaries would deliver patriotic, cliché-laden speeches about freedom, prosperity, and the American Way. “We posted guards inside the Armory and at the shooting range out back. Sentries guard both sides of the stage and the tech area, and we put at least one near every statue and memorial plaque. They’ll handle crowd control.”

“And my role?”

“Escort Mayor Iverson to the podium and stand behind her during her speech, watching for suspicious activity.” Travis paused. “If you spot anything that poses a threat, or if anyone radios you to that effect, get her under cover. Shield her with your own body, if you must.”

“Gotcha.”

“The podium’s bulletproof glass shield will protect her from the front, with about 180 degrees of coverage. She’ll be much more exposed while getting on and off the stage.” He paused and cocked his head. “You all right with this? I could put you in the command-control-communications trailer—”

“I’m fine with the detail. It’s just that I haven’t seen or talked with her since I arrested her husband for murder a few months ago. Things could get a little awkward.”

“She’s a politician,” Travis said. “She’ll be fine. Make small talk. I hear she’s really into the Red Sox.”

“Great. I know zip about baseball.”

“You’ll think of something.” Travis checked his watch. “Things get rolling at 9:00. The mayor’s speech begins at 10:00. Until then, monitor the crowd. Anyone looks weird, kick ’em out. Got it?”

A black sedan with federal plates rolled up next to them and parked right in the driveway. The window powered down, revealing the haughty orange mug of FBI Special Agent Forrestal.

“I told you idiots to shut this thing down,” the agent said without making eye contact.

“You must be Forrestal,” Travis said. “So it gives me great pleasure to tell you to move this car the hell out of here and go complain to someone who cares.”

Forrestal’s face, already spray-tan orange, turned bright red. “Where’s the CCC van?”

“The officer staffing the official parking lot will direct you there,” Travis said. “Now get this tin can off my scene before I start busting headlights.” He readied his baton and made a show of taking aim at the sedan’s front grille. After a moment’s hesitation, Forrestal slammed the car into reverse and burned rubber.

“Watch for pedestrians,” Travis called after him in a soft voice, then smiled.

“I thought they only shut down the building’s interior today,” Val said. “Tours and such.”

“Yeah,” Travis said, grinning, “but wasn’t that fun?”

***

Val spent the next hour roaming the Armory grounds. Spectators dribbled in at first, and the early arrivals—mostly local media—took the shaded seats under a canopy in front of the stage. With temperatures already in the low 80s and climbing, the standing-room-only crowd on the unshaded lawn behind the canopy would suffer obstructed views as well as a real danger of heatstroke.

The event kicked off with City Council members delivering welcoming remarks and handing out public service awards to local dignitaries. Val, camped out in the VIP tent next to the stage, browsed Parler, Gab, and Telegram on her phone, gratified to see that they granted her access to a few alt-right chat groups. She found some lame banter about how July Fourth belonged to the “true patriots” and how the “snowflakes will melt in this heat.” None mentioned anything about events planned in Clayton. She glanced around at the crowd every few minutes, but saw nothing that concerned her.

Around 9:45, her phone buzzed with a message from Travis: the caravan for Mayor Iverson had arrived, mere minutes before her scheduled speaking time.

Val stood and waited by the entrance to the tent. Moments later, a caravan of three black sedans parked in a line at the curb. Black-suited security guards emerged from the lead and rear cars, and the mayor stepped out of the middle car. Iverson’s blue and white sheath dress accentuated her tall, thin figure, and her wrinkle-free, tanned face looked years younger than the age of 47 given on her website bio.

Two staffers climbed out of the car after her, and the threesome speed-walked the twenty yards to the VIP pavilion, heads down in conversation. When Iverson spotted Val, her entire demeanor changed.

“What the hell are you doing here?” the mayor snapped, then blew past her into the tent, with her staff scrambling to keep up.

“I’m your on-stage security detail, Madam Mayor.”

“Unnecessary,” Iverson said over her shoulder. “I brought my own.” Sure enough, four of the black-suited men entered the tent behind her staff, taking positions in pairs near each exit.

“Nevertheless, I’ll need to escort you on stage—”

“I’d sooner take the bullet,” the mayor said.

The on-stage speaker, an AM-radio talk-show celebrity, exhorted the crowd to “show your patriotism today” and urged them to support a fringe candidate for governor in the next election. Iverson frowned and muttered that “speeches weren’t supposed to get political today.” She caught Val staring at her and glared. Val returned her attention to the speaker.

“We must continue to fight for our freedoms!” he shouted. “Fight! For! Freedom!”

“Fight! For! Freedom!” the crowd chanted back, growing louder with each repetition.

Someone screamed something in response, a lone voice. The crowd’s chants drowned out the protester.

A louder rumbling sent Val back to the tent’s opening near the stage, where she peeked out at the crowd. Angry shouting interrupted the chants, followed by sounds of flesh hitting flesh. Val couldn’t spot the commotion at first, so she stepped out onto the stage. Deep in the crowd, behind the shaded seats, a fight had broken out between two men, and others joined in. Uniformed police struggled to push through the onlookers to break it up, while clueless rubberneckers continued to vie for a better view, obstructing the officers’ progress. The fighting spread to a few more audience members, several of whom were dressed in camouflage, and their opponents in all black, with face coverings. More shouts, more pushing and shoving. The police, rather than moving closer, got pushed back. For a moment she wondered whether they’d break out tasers or tear gas, and guessed that the prospect of harming innocents outweighed the potential crowd control benefits.

They needed more police bodies. Lots more.

“What’s happening?” Iverson said from inside the tent. “It sounds like a riot out there.”

Val radioed Travis: “Should I get in there and help?”

“Negative,” Travis said. “You’re unarmed. Get back in the tent with the mayor.”

“It’s getting out of hand,” Val said. “We’re outnumbered out there!”

No sooner did those words leave her mouth than a wave of heavily armed bodies in army-green uniforms wedged its way through the crowd. A few fired shots into the air. One screamed something about “Get down!” or “Get out!” to the crowd. People scattered, including those trading blows. One man in particular stood out: a short, wiry guy wearing all black with long, purple locks and a scraggly beard flowing around a black face mask. Purple Hair ran through the thinning crowd, throwing punches and knocking people down on the way to making a successful escape.

Val glanced back at the VIP area. One of the black suits in there shouted, “To the car!” Moments later, the entire entourage hustled to their black sedans.

Val spotted Purple Hair again and started to chase him, but stopped when Travis’s orders to stay put echoed in her head.

Seconds later, the army-green contingent pushed through to the few remaining fighters, knocking them to the ground and standing on their shoulders, guns pointed.

“Who the hell are those guys?” Val radioed Travis.

“Feds. And National Guard. Forrestal’s gang. The dumb son of a bitch called out the freaking cavalry.”

Within minutes, they’d cuffed the brawlers and a few dozen random others face-down in the grass. One by one, the feds dragged suspects on their bellies into the police vans on the perimeter. Someone on stage announced to the disappearing crowd that they’d canceled the remainder of the event.

“The mayor’s car skedaddled,” Travis said over the radio. “Come help me with traffic control. It’s a freaking mess down here.”

Val joined Travis a few minutes later near the public parking lot. They spent the next hour sorting through the chaos of honking horns, shouting drivers, and vehicles that somehow got turned the wrong way, snarling traffic for blocks in all directions. When the flow of cars returned to normal, they huddled near the communications trailer, sipping iced coffees.

“What a mess,” Travis said.

“Was anyone hurt?” Val asked, downing half of her coffee in one gulp.

“A few cuts and bruises, nothing serious, and mostly the fighters, from what I hear,” Travis said. “We’ll know more once they sort through the arrests downtown. We should head there to help out.”

“No need,” boomed a loud voice behind them. They turned.

Of course: Forrestal.

“They’re all going to our facility in Hartford,” Forrestal said. “We’ll keep all of ’em under wraps for at least 24 hours. By nightfall, they’ll all be singing like choir boys. By the time tonight’s fireworks fly, there won’t be a radical in the state available to throw a punch.”

Val rolled her eyes. “You’re sure this is an Antifa attack? Why? Did one of them surrender their membership card?”

“You saw how they were dressed,” Forrestal said. “You may not want to admit it, but they threw the first punch, started the whole damned thing.” He laughed. “And I ended it. You guys and gals in blue will thank me, because I just saved your town’s Fourth of July celebration. You’ll get the day off because of it.”

Val shook her head. “Even if you’re right,” and somehow didn’t add, but you’re not, “a bunch of them got away. What makes you think they’ll stop here?”

Forrestal made a face at her, as if deciding whether to respond. “Because,” he said in a condescending tone, “they’re cowards. They’ll run home to their mommies’ basements and hide there for a week, where we’ll find them once their comrades talk. And,” he went on, his tone growing even more self-assured, “we stopped their raid on the Armory. They needed the guns for their attacks later today. We’ve foiled their plans. They’re done.”

He paused, checking his cell phone, and laughed. “There’s your mayor now, calling to thank me. Excuse me while I talk to someone who matters.” He strutted away with the phone to his ear.

Val turned to Travis, who’d remained quiet, arms folded. “What do you think, Sarge? Is he crazy, or am I?”

Travis shrugged. “I’ve known all along that you are. I’ve also known you to be right, even when you’re crazy.”

“So, do we continue on, or go home, like Forrestal suggested?”

“That’s above my pay grade,” Travis said. “For now, we do what the Chief ordered. But it wouldn’t surprise me if those orders change soon.”