Authors: Kevin Carrigan
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching more of the reports as they came in. Martineau then turned to Clark and said, “I wonder what happened to Bonsam?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Clark replied.
As if the news network had been reading their minds, the scene jumped to a hastily prepared press conference room. The president’s press secretary was shown motioning with his hands for the crowd to be quiet. “I know you must have a million questions,” Press Secretary Stratton told the crowd of reporters. “However, I am only going to take two or three after I read this announcement.”
You could hear a pin drop in the press conference room as the press secretary read his prepared news release. “President Emmanuel Bonsam is alive,” Stratton announced.
The crowd erupted as shouts came from the reporters. The press secretary waved down the crowd again. “Let me finish,” he said loudly.
As the crowd quieted down, Stratton continued. “Miraculously, the president received no bullet wounds. He did, however, injure the elbow and shoulder of his right arm when he selflessly risked his own life to protect those seated near the podium, but the injuries are minor. The president is aboard Air Force One as we speak and is heading back to Washington. I have nothing further.”
Again the reporters shouted out all at once. Stratton pointed to a reporter, who stood and asked, “Do you know who is responsible for this attempt to assassinate President Bonsam?”
“The Secret Service killed three of the assassins inside the Palace. Their identities have been uncovered, however we are not releasing any names at this time. The Secret Service and the FBI are conducting an extensive search for any accomplices,” replied Stratton.
Stratton turned and pointed to a reporter on the other side of the room, who quickly blurted out, “Were they terrorists?”
Stratton paused for a moment. He placed his hands on the side of the lectern, took a deep breath and replied, “Yes, they were terrorists, the worst kind of terrorists. Homegrown terrorists.” Stratton then looked directly into the camera and delivered the line that Bonsam had instructed him to deliver, “And President Bonsam has vowed that every terrorist in the Michigan Militia will be brought to justice!”
Clark was shocked beyond belief. “Oh my God, no!” he yelled. “How in the world could they make an announcement like that at a time like this? We are going to have a full-fledged race war in Detroit!”
Back at the press conference, Stratton had left the podium and the reporters filed out of the conference room. The two reporters who had asked the questions smiled to one another as they pushed their way through the crowd. Once they had exited the conference room, they made their way together to the parking lot and climbed into their DMBC news van.
Chapter 43
In Charlottesville, Daniel and Thomas were trying to revive Ixchel. They had moved her onto the couch and laid her down. Thomas had gone into the kitchen and put some cool water on a cloth and was now pressing it gently to Ixchel’s forehead. “Dan, she is burning up,” he said.
Daniel was rubbing Ixchel’s arm with his hands. He gently called out, “Ixchel? Ixchel, are you okay?” Daniel looked at Thomas and said, “Did you see what happened? When she saw the shots fired at Bonsam she totally lost it. My God, did you hear that scream? I mean, hell yeah, it was a traumatic event, but not enough to make a person pass out.”
“Dude, she screamed before the shots were fired,” said Thomas, as he looked Daniel straight in the eyes.
“What?” said Daniel. He was about to ask Thomas what he meant by that remark, when he realized what Thomas was saying was true. In his mind, Daniel saw Ixchel’s hands come to her mouth as she screamed in horror, moments before the shots were fired. He paused and looked at Ixchel, then up at Thomas and said in almost a whisper, “You’re right.” Daniel was stunned.
Daniel began rubbing Ixchel harder, almost to the point of shaking her. His voice grew louder, “Ixchel, Ixchel!”
Ixchel started to come around, so Thomas stopped dabbing her forehead and stepped back. He looked down at Daniel and Ixchel for a moment, then turned his attention back to the television. He watched in absolute disbelief as the news reports showed Detroit falling into total pandemonium.
As Air Force One began its descent, President Bonsam watched with exultant joy as reports came in showing the violence in Detroit surge toward critical mass. He knew that Delgado’s planned actions would soon push the city over the edge. Clark would be blamed for the rioting that was sure to come, and he would never be able to live down tonight’s catastrophe.
Bonsam looked out the window next to his seat and saw the reflection of his face. He could see fire in his eyes. He touched his fingertips to the glass as he continued to stare at his own reflection and said, “My Providence.”
Chapter 44
Like most other parts of Detroit, violence and destruction raged through the Cass Corridor section of town. Cass Corridor is one of the most violent parts of Detroit on the best of days, but with tonight’s announcement that some white-trash KKK scum had tried to kill the first African-American president, total mayhem ensued.
Joseph Franklin, Jr. had lived in the Corridor his entire life. As a boy he grew up in one of the many rundown apartment buildings filled with drug dealers, pimps, and hookers. Joseph’s father had very little education, but he was a hard worker and he kept his family safe. Joseph Sr. had worked his entire adult life in a small hardware store on Cass Avenue that had been owned by his uncle. Since his uncle had no children of his own, he left the hardware store to Joseph Sr. when he died.
Joseph Jr. then inherited the store from his father, and had been eking out a living there ever since.
Joseph ran down the street past the vacant storefronts until he had reached his hardware store. He saw roving packs of hoodlums in every direction as he slowly turned in a circle. He saw windows being smashed and cars being torn apart, yet his hardware store had not been touched. “Thank you, God,” he said to himself as he moved to unlock the metal bars barricading the entrance to his store.
As he turned the key, he looked over his shoulder to see if the coast was clear. To his dismay he saw his eleven-year-old son running toward him yelling, “Dad! Dad!”
Joseph grabbed his son and yanked him into the store. He pulled down the metal bars rapidly and closed the lock. He spun around and grabbed his son by the shoulders and shouted, “My God, Danté, what are you doing here?”
“I was worried about you, Dad,” Danté replied. He was breathing rapidly and there was fright in his eyes.
The sound of a windshield being smashed echoed through the store. Joseph pulled Danté to the floor and together they crawled behind the counter. Joseph slowly peered over the top of the counter. The noises outside were getting closer now. He looked down at Danté and said, “We’re going to be all right,” but he was so frightened he wasn’t sure if he really believed it.
Up the street less than a half-mile away from the hardware store sat an abandoned service station. Inside the garage were two large, heavily
souped
-up 4X4 pickups. Inside the trucks were the only white men who dared to be in this part of town tonight. The driver of the first truck punched a number into his phone and placed it to his ear. When the person on the other end answered, he spoke in a mockingly southern drawl. “Howdy boss, we’re in place and we have our costumes on.” The man laughed as he looked down at his Tony Lama cowboy boots, Mack truck belt buckle, and the
Dickies
flannel shirt that was covering his Kevlar body armor. “We just saw two men enter the target. We’re ready to move out on your word.”
“Ok, you are a go. Stick to the plan, and don’t get caught, you stupid gringos,” Jorge Delgado said with a laugh. He turned to his agents and said, “Phase One is underway!”
The members of this team were ex-special forces warriors from each branch of the military who, like Delgado, had become disillusioned by the ignorance that ran rampant throughout the military’s leadership. They were young, white reprobates with a soldier of fortune attitude. They had no agenda, political or otherwise, and offered their services to the highest bidder. In this particular case, however, they had no idea that the bidder actually despised them.
Even though they were working freelance, Delgado referred to them as “agents,” which they found, in their words, “extremely cool.” Agent Erik Torgersen set down his cell phone and raised his hand into the air with his index finger pointing upward, and shook it in circles indicating to the rest of the good old boys that they were moving out.
One of Torgersen’s fellow agents, Keith Dixon, flung open the garage door. He hopped into the back seat of the second truck and gave two hard taps to the back of the seat in front of him. Torgersen let out a loud, “
Whoooooo
eeeee
!” and gunned the truck out of the garage with the second truck right behind.
The trucks sped down Cass Avenue with their engines roaring. Torgersen and the other driver swerved back and forth recklessly, causing the rioters to flee the streets for the safety of the sidewalks. The rioting came to a complete stop as onlookers watched two trucks loaded with white guys come screeching to a halt in front of Franklin’s Hardware Store.
The agents exited the vehicles and started hollering, “Yee Haw!” like they were at a hootenanny in the middle of Appalachia. The rioters and onlookers in the area stared in disbelief. Several of the hoodlums present huddled and started to cross the street with every intention of totally fucking up whitey. The agents just joked and laughed as they watched some high school punks approach. They were carrying metal pipes, baseball bats, bricks, and various other rioting implements.
The biggest kid in the group stepped forward and unsheathed a Samurai sword that he had just looted from a pawnshop a few blocks over. Upon seeing this, the agents pulled their automatic rifles from the beds of the trucks and began spraying bullets into the air. Screams could be heard from the crowd as the hoodlums scattered in every direction. When the shooting stopped, Agent Torgersen tipped up the brim of his cowboy hat and yelled out, “Never bring a knife to a gunfight,
Sambo
!”
Inside the store, Joseph and Danté hit the floor as the sound of gunfire ripped through the air. Joseph slid closer to Danté and said, “Son, you have got to get out of here. There are no bars on the bathroom window. I know you can fit through it. Go! Go now! Run as far away from here as you can!”
“Dad, I need to stay with you! I need to stay with you,” cried out Danté.
The roar of trucks’ engines could be heard getting closer, and a moment later, a loud bang of metal crashing against metal rang out. Joseph grabbed Danté by the shirt and yelled, “Go, now!” With tears in his eyes, Danté got up and ran to the back of the store.
Out front the trucks had been backed up to the front of the store, and Dixon and another agent were feverishly wrapping chains that were already hooked to the trucks’ tow bars to the metal bars barricading the front of the store. Other agents continued to shout out and fire shots into the air to keep the hoodlums at bay. The entire crowd of onlookers peering from their places of cover was in shock.
Once the chains were secure the agents stepped beside the trucks and banged twice on the side of the beds. Both Torgersen and the driver of the second truck simultaneously revved their engines and lurched forward, ripping the metal barricades completely off of the storefront and crashing open the store’s front windows. There was more hollering, and the agents fired more bullets into the air. The trucks dragged the barricades into the middle of the street and stopped. The agents who had secured the chains to the barricades quickly unhooked the chains from the barricades and tow bars and threw them next to a footlocker into the bed of the first truck. Torgersen and Dixon each pulled a large bottle from the footlocker and then they made their way back to the storefront.
Joseph cringed at the sound of the barricades crashing down. He slowly inched his way up and peered over the counter. His eyes widened in horror as he saw two men walking toward his store, each holding a bottle with a lit rag dangling out of the top. He stood up quickly and began waving his hands over his head while shouting, “Please don’t! Please don’t!”