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WASHINGTON, D.C.—SUPREME Court of the United States
Monday morning David Thurman walked along First Street Northeast in Washington, D.C. He was a towering man, stopping in front of the United States Supreme Court, wearing a dark denim blazer that concealed a brass Henry Arms Big Boy Lever Action Centerfire .44-caliber rifle. Climbing three of the eight marble steps, leading to the court’s entrance, he shifted a briefcase from one hand to the other. The case didn’t contain legal briefs to present to the highest court or any papers at all. It did hide two more weapons—a Sig Sauer MPX 9mm pistol and a Ruger LC9 9mm. Trained to go!
A class of high schoolers crowded the Court’s elevated marble plaza: an oval terrace spanning two hundred fifty-two feet long and ninety-eight feet wide, paved in gray and white marble in a pattern of alternating circles and squares similar to the Roman Pantheon’s floor. All of the students donned business attire, visiting from Germantown High School’s Law and Government Magnet Program in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. David Thurman watched the future Philadelphia lawyers marvel at the plaza’s two fountains and two flag poles. He had a seat on one of the six marble benches next to an elderly couple. He counted the steps that ascended from the plaza to the building’s portico, leading to the magnificent bronze doors that served as the main entrance into the building. Thirty-six. A low wall surrounded the plaza and encircled the rest of the building, providing cover for an assault on the building that sat across the street.
The United States Capitol.
Thurman, an ex-army captain—dishonorably eighty-sixed—gazed indifferently at patriots and visitors taking pictures of the famous buildings. They took selfies for social media postings to chronicle their visit to the world’s most powerful capital. Stupid ingrates, he thought with little effort disguising his disgust for their enthusiasm. Imbeciles, blind patriotism, just ignorant fools everywhere, including, these old cows next to me.
The elderly man caught Thurman staring at him and nodded. The man had no idea that he had spoken to a killing machine. Thurman was the lone gunman in the attack on a New York City police precinct. Thirteen officers were murdered. Ten men. Three women. Four rookies. He smiled at the memory. Palatable.
Since then, he had continued to make a name for himself amongst blood-thirsty media hounds with attacks on other police targets in Cleveland, Indianapolis, Detroit, Chicago, and St. Louis—his swing through the Midwest. It was time to feed American’s fear of home-grown terror right in Washington, D.C. His new targets were a justice of the Court and a U.S. Senator. Both of them had two things in common.
One, they were African-American Democrats.
Two, they were against criminal justice reform.
This may be the end of my murderous roller-coaster ride. Successful or not, the psychological-fear resulting from what he planned was more important than the outcome. Surely, a clean-cut, freckle-faced, blue-eyed, redhead could kill at will, thanks to media clowns. The bogeyman of home-grown radical Islamic terrorists was out of place in the capital—and airports, train stations, office parties, university campuses, gay clubs, and coffee shops. Thurman however, had carte blanche to do as he pleased without racial or religious scrutiny. Ah, the privilege of being white in America.
Thurman’s musings were interrupted when a United States Capitol Police officer’s car passed. The sight caused the killer to smile. The policeman moved fifteen miles per hour. An easy target for the expert marksman. Two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan gave him ample opportunity to practice. Practice makes perfect.
He brushed beads of sweat from his brows and glanced nervously at a young Asian man strolling by with earbuds in his ears. The man was in his own world and minding his business. I should kill you first, then, the Capitol policeman. Top that off with the old couple and the high schoolers. But I won’t. Bigger fish in the sea!