The American Way

Thomas Andrews noticed the Orlando Police Department cruiser pull into his driveway long before his wife did. Cheryl was rustling around in the kitchen preparing breakfast for them while their daughter Jules was sleeping off her eighteenth birthday celebration from the night before. Thomas didn’t expect her up until after lunch. He was enjoying the quiet and rare cool of the June morning, sitting in the living room with his coffee. He watched with mild curiosity as the Police cruiser stopped midway up the driveway- An iron hand gripped the inside of his stomach and turned it in an unnatural position. That’s where Jules usually parks. Thomas placed his coffee down on the window ledge searching the street frantically for her car. He felt a vaguely familiar sensation he had hoped he would never feel again.

“You ok, hun?” Cheryl asked, “You look pale.” “Cheryl…” What could he say, “It’s all going to be ok.” He uttered. Cheryl looked at him confused. The bell rang. “Thomas?” She asked nervously; keenly aware he wasn’t telling her something Thomas didn’t respond. He was hoping for the best, but he saw the look on the officers’ faces when they got out of the car. After his first and only tour in Iraq Thomas knew that there was nothing he could say to her right now. There was no special order of words that would fill the gaping hole, no way around the pain waiting on the other side of the door. Thomas retracted the deadbolt and opened the entry. “Mr. Thomas Andrews?” “Yes.” “I am Officer Bradley, this is Officer Harris. I am afraid I have some bad news.”

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Mr. Rekoy drove his Prius as fast as the small four-cylinder engine would take him. Susan gripped the passenger door handle as he ran stop signs and drove down one-way streets in the sleepy Connecticut town. Susan said nothing however, for fear he might slow down. It was faster than the tiny compact had ever gone before. They finally arrived at the parking Lot. They weren’t letting anyone in. Mr. Rekoy swerved into the nearest patch of grassy shoulder he could find along the tree lined road, got out of the car and started running. Mrs. Rekoy had no hope of keeping up with him if she wanted to and today she really didn’t want to. She felt it on the way over. Something she couldn’t describe even to herself. There was no use running but she followed behind him as best she could; he would need her now.

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Arthur waited patiently for the man to come to the diner. He knew he would arrive eventually. He could have waited all day. He woke up as he had for the past few months, with a direction in life; a goal. The first time since Dolan passed that he wasn’t in a hurry. It was a difficult thing for Arthur to understand at first. He pondered for weeks trying to make sense of it. Turning it, flipping it, bending it, trying to make it fit in the puzzle of reason. Dolan, his brother-in-arms was gone. They had been close, Dolan had even made

him the godfather of his only daughter. Now, it was his job to try to help her make sense her father’s loss. Arthur could not. He had no explanation for the departure of a man who severed with him in three of the most dangerous locations in the world and met his demise at home relaxing. He could offer no solace to Dolan’s family initially. He slipped into a bit of depression for months afer the event until he finally realized there was something that he could offer Dolan’s family. Arthur smiled as he saw Thomas enter the diner and sit. He looked a completely different man than the picture he had of him. The photo in his hand was from a few years ago back when his daughter Jules was alive. If he wasn’t looking he would have missed him. He took a small piece of paper, wrote on it and exited the car. Thomas Andrews barely noticed the man walk into the diner. When he sat at his booth, Thomas met his gaze and waited for him to realize his error and get up; he did not. He simply stared back at him. At first he regarded the presence of this man as a nuance. Thomas was a half breath away from jabbing his fork into his neck when the stranger started talking. His speech pattern was smooth, but he did not mince words. Thomas listened more carefully; he could not possibly be saying what he was saying. Thomas told himself to get up and walk away but his body didn’t move. He had nothing to walk away to. As if reading his mind, the man whose name was Arthur, leaned back in the booth and gave a gesture, almost inviting Thomas to leave or kick him out but Thomas just stared back blankly. “You know you’re not the first person I’ve come to,” Arthur began again, “You’re telling yourself: ‘Get away from this psycho, hit the door and don’t look back.” Thomas shrugged ever so slightly. “But there’s nothing on the other side of that door for you.” Arthur stated looking out at the parking lot, “You are broken now and can’t be fixed.” He stated plaining still looking out the window. “Your wife was capable of healing, that’s why she left last year. But not you, you can’t heal.” Arthur looked at him sympathetically. “Neither Can I.” He added. “Which is why I’m sitting here with you…and why you haven’t gotten up.” Thomas didn’t bother asking him how he knew about his wife, the stranger hadn’t found his booth by chance. Arthur turned his head slightly when the waitress approached again. When she left he handed Thomas a piece of paper with an address and a time. “Let’s do it for them.” Arthur said. Arthur slipped away as quietly as he came, leaving Thomas alone with his void and broken soul. It was a sensational pitch, in ten minutes he was able to sell him something he had not been able to find in years. Arthur had sold him a purpose and Thomas latched on instantly, mostly because there was nothing else left to hold on to.

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Mr. and Mrs. Rekoy shared the mirror in front of the single sink in the bathroom of the cheap downtown hotel. Mr. Rekoy in his best suit and favorite tie was having difficulty with the knot. He tried it again for a third time. He wanted it perfect. It was unlikely he would ever tie it again. “Third time’s a charm.” He said with a smile admiring his handiwork. “Here let me.” He offered noticing his wife struggling with the latch on her pearl necklace. He worked it with little trouble and then paused to admire the scene in the mirror. “Now that’s a beautiful picture.” Mrs. Rekoy said. Mr. Rekoy kissed his wife and led her to the edge of the bed. “I made something.” He said retrieving the iPad from his bag. He unlocked the screen and opened the video library. There was only one file. Upon seeing the video cover Mrs. Rekoy began to turn away. “Jim…” “Susan,” he said calmly but firmly, “We need to remember. We need to remember why.” Susan looked in his eyes, such a pretty blue she thought, just like Jennifer’s. She nodded and Jim pressed play. They sat in the cheap motel on the edge of the cheap bed and cried at the most priceless images either of them ever knew.

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Richard sat in the rented Hyundai anxiously drumming on the steering wheel. He was looking forward to getting into the gun range. This morning ritual had become quite lethargic for him. The release he felt at the range these mornings was better than any therapist couch that he had been on and he’d been on a few. Afterwards he didn’t feel anxious and lost anymore. This morning he felt especially anxious, he couldn’t wait to empty a box or two to calm his nerves. He looked at his phone’s screensaver. The picture on it made him smile every time. He stared at it until the phone went dark again. He closed his eyes and remembered that day, his smile grew.

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Carol checked her watched as she drove down the Virginia Hwy. Twelve minutes. It was hard to imagine, the culmination of her entire life was to be written in thirteen minutes. All of her love, all of her pain, everything she had gained along the way and what she would soon loose. It would all be summed up on a bitter day mid-December. Seemed unfair to Carol, but it was a choice she had made. After all, there were greater injustices in the world, done in shorter amounts of time. Eleven minutes later Carol parked the minivan on the top level of the parking structure. Now the hard part she thought. She released the lever on her chair and the driver seat swiveled a complete one eighty hundred degrees leaving her a foot or two from the wheelchair locked in place behind her. With some effort she slid her butt from the driver’s seat to the automatic wheelchair sit and situated herself. She hit the button on her key and the sliding door on the minivan opened and the ramp folded out. She rolled down with a grace that had only come after much practice. She the hit button again and the ramp folded up and door slid closed. Carol tilted the joystick and the chair began to roll towards the museum entrance.

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“Aw what’s this??” The Guard said. The man holding the trolley smirked used to being an unwelcome sight in a Lobby of any building. “Delivery and Installation of one Sear’s finest Refrigerator’s.” He announced loudly and playfully presenting the large box as the royal court would announce the prince. The fatter of the two guards sighed getting up. “Who’s it going to?” “Matthews. 6th floor.” He said handing him the order slip. “Sign here.” The security guard said gruffly. “You guys got a service elevator?” The chipper delivery man asked. “Yea over here.” The guard led them off the main corridor to another hallway.

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Initially it was hard to distinguish the shooting in the range from the shots outside of it. The shooting range had its own sound damping and everyone had ear muffs on, plus the discharges from the two active shooting positions along the firing line made the shots outside the range hard to decipher. Richard removed his ear muffs, leaned back from his set up at position six and looked down the line. Two gentlemen had come in after him and they were set up in shooting positions one and two but they weren’t using that kind of fire power. He heard it again. This time so did everyone else, it was coming from the building the range was attached to. The shooters in lanes one and two holstered their weapons and after a quick scan started walking back towards Jeb at the counter. Richard slung his rifle onto his back and slowly followed. There were two other men that had not been on the range line were already at the counter looking slightly confused. “Is that what I think it is?” The shooter from aisle two said as they approached the two standing in front of Jeb. “I’m afraid so.” Richard said turning his assault rifle loose on the group. He stood over them for a moment to make sure they were gone. Then walked to the entrance locked the door and set the charges. “Range Secure.” Richard into the Radio he took out of his pocket. “Museum secure.” Carol Squawked back. “Lobby secure.” Thomas answered.

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Lieutenant Keith Davis showed his badge to the officer at the barricade. He made an opening for him. It was just over an hour and half from the first 911 call. Davis walked through the steel barrier and drew in a deep breath taking in the scene. To say he enjoyed this part of the job would be a mischaracterization. This was however the part of the job he signed up for. This was the part where he could save lives and he did enjoy that. He quickly spotted the mobile command Van. Lieutenant Neil O’Brien was first on scene and had been prepping. Davis had worked with him once before, he was a good cop. “What we got?” Lt Davis asked bluntly shaking O’Brien’s hand. “They’ve secured all the entrances including the range and museum. Wired them all with Explosives. There’s at least six maybe seven armed with M4 Carbine AR-15s, Sig Sauer MCXs, Carbine XM-15s and M&P15s. “The usual suspects.” Davis said recognizing the assault rifles names all too well. “At least ten were killed taking the building as they shot back with personal handguns but it wasn’t a fair fight. We don’t believe any of the perps sustained injury. Even if we could bypass the explosives and gain entry they’ve shut themselves in on the tenth floor, elevators are disabled. Six or seven AR-15s is enough to cover two staircases and the hostages.” Lt Davis grunted agreeing with O’Brien’s assessment. “Assuming they haven’t rigged the stairs too.” O’Brien added. “How many inside?” “Roughly? A hundred or so. The rest they released.” “Smart.” “I guess.” “Any idea who they are?” “Oh yea, they told us.” Lt Davis raised an eyebrow. O’Brien retrieved a stack of manila folders and handed them to him. The first one was noticeably thicker than the rest. “Based on background alone this guy is likely in charge and the most dangerous.” The younger LT said pointing to the thicker folder on top. Davis opened the hefty file, “Lt. Commander Arthur Williams,37, Navy Seal. Tours in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, a few other shitholes and if you believe the file for the last two years held a desk job.” “Not a chance; So Special Ops, black book type work?” “What I’m thinking. Make more sense than a desk.” “Next up, Jimmy Rekoy, 36, Corporal; Army Ranger. Also a tour in Iraq but not much else after that. Honorably Discharged in 2012. These are your organizers and leaders if I had to bet. The rest of them are… “ Lt O’Brien struggled to finds a suitable word, “Unremarkable to say the least.” Lt Davis flipped through the other files. Unremarkable was an understatement. The most interesting thing about Carol Scott, 41, was a speeding ticket. Richard Boye didn’t even have that, in fact he was a – “Insurance broker?” Davis said aloud. O’Brien gave him a look. “Was waiting for you to get to that one.” “What the fuck are these guys doing storming a building with Machine guns?” He asked, outline thumbing the reminder of the thin files. O’Brien shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him?” he said undocking one of the phones from the console. “What number we dialing?” “His Burner phone.” “How did we-“ “He gave it to us.” Davis looked even more bewildered as the line began to ring. Arthur had the phone is his hand; he’d been waiting for the call for ten minutes since he saw the detective cross the barricade from his tenth floor window. He answered it casually. “I am speaking to the man in charge?” “You are.” Arthur replied flatly. “Ok, I’m Lieutenant Keith Davis. How is it goin-“ “I’ll cut to the chase if it all the same to you Lieutenant?” “Sure.” “Behind the barricade there are ten or so reporters with their cameramen; most broadcasting from their van. I want one reporter and one Cameraman with live broadcast capabilities. You send them in and I send you three hostages.” “You want me to put more people at risk?” Davis asked. Arthur chuckled genuinely amused. Davis raised an eyebrow. “They will beg you for the chance,” Arthur responded matter of factly, “I take two volunteers and you get three unwilling hostages.” Arthur let his deal sink for a moment before continuing. “There’s the carrot. Would you like to hear the stick?” Arthur asked. “Not Necessary. “ Davis responded. He’d already shown willingness to kill. “Ten Minutes.” Arthur said and hung up. Lt Davis hung up the phone and stared at it processing what he heard. Trying to analyze his speech patterns and tone. He did this without thinking about it. Naturally adding that into his mental tally and calculating odds. He voice was level, unfazed. “What do you want to do?” Lt O’Brien finally asked. “Find out who wants to win a Pulitzer.” Davis said walking towards the entrance of the van. He needed a cigarette. “And get me an incursion plan, yesterday.”

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“…You have taken a building full of innocent people hostage… you have slaughtered a dozen or so in order to do it. Now you’ve asked for an audience with the American people but how can you justify that to the people watching?” After very few formalities the reporter Lt Davis had allowed entry, jumped right in. Arthur had assured her no matter the questions she nor the hostages would befall any harm as a result. In fact he told her that throwing him softball is about the only thing she could do to piss him off. She had obviously taken that to heart and went right after him. “Only a madman can justify mass murder. Nor can I condon what was done or ask forgiveness. However, I think more than justifications, people would like to understand. There’s something in us that begs the question ‘why’, would you agree?” “I would.” She responded simply giving him the floor. Arthur shifted in his seat. This was the pinnacle moment, the part that they worked so hard for. He Began: “On a bitter December day not unlike this one a few years ago, a lady in the other room drove to her seven year old daughter’s school in Newtown, Connecticut. She was informed that multiple bullets from an XR-15 had ripped through her seven year old daughter’s chest and face.” He paused for a moment for that to soak in. “She buried her daughter Jennifer in a closed casket. Custom made of course, they don’t carry many caskets for seven year olds.” The silence on the crude set was deafening. “You know when something like that happens you spend weeks just wondering… why? How?” Arthur took a sip of water. “Twenty kids died that day; children. Six teachers and twenty Children; dead. Mrs. Rekoy once told me, ‘you hate yourself for thinking it but you can’t help as a parent but to wonder what if it was nineteen children and my little girl got away’.” “It must have been unimaginable for her.” The reporter finally found her voice. “They cover it on the news every day. Your very own tragedy out for public consumption. Then eventually, someone puts some numbers on the screen and you see all the statistical evidence that shows if you give the shooter a hand gun, hell, even give him two and he won’t be able to kill twenty six; maybe half that. And suddenly your little Jennifer would have had a chance of survival. You think, ‘Yes! Let’s do that! Of course it’s too late for Mrs. Rekoy’s Jennifer but not the millions of others. ‘Give them handguns’ you shout at the screen.” “Though he would still be able to commit mass murder?” The reporter pointed out. “Absolutely. There’s no protection against mental insanity. “ Arthur adjusted again. “But what If I told you that I personally saved ten of those kids? What if I told you that currently there are ten thirteen and fourteen year olds walking the earth because I was there and I saved them? You would call me a hero, would you not?” “If you would have saved ten children seven years ago most of America would have, yes.” “But we can save ten.” Arthur said passionately ultimately arriving at his point. “Give him hands guns instead of an assault rifle and you save ten children in Sandy hook. And Mr. Rekoy is still selling insurance right now. I mean it shouldn’t be this hard to convince people to save children. Children for god’s sake.” Arthur’s voice was holding up but the tears began to well in his eyes his indominable façade crumbling at the thought of an AR-15 being used upon a child. “Give him a hand gun in Orlando you save another twenty and Mr. Andrews is home with his wife and not standing behind you with thirty rounds in his clips, Las Vegas you save twenty or thirty, Sutherland Springs, Texas save twelve, Parkland, Florida you save another ten,… you think about these things in the years after you bury your seven year old child, you think ‘Jesus, if she just would have had half a chance. Initially you get excited as you hear politicians, even the President, vowing to crack down on guns. Perhaps Jennifer’s death won’t be in vain, if the laws are changed and other children can be saved. Or just given a chance, a chance to grow up. To-“ Author’s voice finally broke in a stifled sob. The tears were streaming down his face then. “And then-“ He continued wiping his tears, “And then you hear about this group of people. And they’re not thinking about saving a dozen seven-year olds or even one. You hear them fight against the change that would have given your daughter a chance; you hear them defending the sale of the weapon that gave all these kids no opportunity at all.” Arthur composed himself. He seemed to find strength in the hate, he was returning to the man who first sat down in front of the camera. “Once you get past the early shock that these people actually exist, that they are in a civilized society, you begin to wonder how they formed this position.” “I’m sure the people you’ve taken hostage here inside the NRA Headquarters would say it’s the Second Amendment.” The reporter offered. “Oh please, Let’s not be ignorant. The Second Amendment is for hand guns and rifles. That’s all that existed when it was written. How could it protect something that didn’t exist at the time it was penned?” “True, but it’s more of the principal that we need to follow.” “Principal?” He repeated facetiously. “So not because of something that’s actually protected but because of the ‘Principal’? Well, I will be sure to inform Mrs. Rekoy. Perhaps she will feel better regarding her seven year old’s sacrifice to patriotism. “ “Why are you here, Mr. Williams?” She re-directed. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He simply offered as if the answer was evident. Seeing it was not, he adjusted, “You know, my uncle owned a bar. Years ago. It was small place barely scrapping by but it was his. Once, he fell sick and asked his son, my cousin, to take over for in his absence. One day a guy comes in while my cousin is running the place and he says he’ll pay my cousin to let him put little flyers on the bar promoting his restaurant. My cousin looked at the till which was bare, shrugged and took the money. When my Uncle got back he noticed the flyers and asked my cousin to order a few very specific items off the menu including the fish to bring home and eat. ‘Why?’ my cousin asked. ‘Why not?’ My uncle answered. ‘You are promoting it, encouraging it. Shouldn’t you have to experience what you endorse? “ Arthur smiled knowing he made his point. “Long story short. My cousin got sick; Flyers went in the trash.”

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Lt. Davis watched the live broadcast as he was sure millions did. He didn’t really care about the politics of it. He wanted to learn something from this man that would help talk him down. After the uncle story, which Keith was sure was bullshit but got the point across efficiently, he watched him effortlessly rattled off the list of parents to the victims of the worse mass murders in U.S. history. Davis was feeling less optimistic. Davis had the reporter stopped as she exited the NRA building in an effort to learn something; anything. “The reporter is ready for you, Lieutenant.” An officer said popping his head into the van. Davis just grunted at him still watching the playback of the interview. Something was there he wasn’t seeing and it kept needling Davis. “O’brien?” “Yea.” “Where’s the list of weapons you said they brought into the building?” O’brien looked around the growing assortment of sticky notes around the console and found the right one. He handed it to Davis. “Google the weapons used in Parkland, Sandy Hook and the others he mentioned.” A few clicks on a computer and O’Brien had the Info. “Let’s see, Sandy was AR-15, Parkland was XR-15, Orlando Sig Sauer MCX, Vegas-“ O’Brien trailed off realizing what Davis had already suspected. He looked up from the screen Lt Davis was pale white. “Send them in; Full Breach.” His voice was almost a whisper. O’Brien hesitated only for a second. “Now!” Davis screamed. Arthur clicked the TV off. The group seemed pleased with the coverage. The conversation had been started in the manner in which they intended. However another debate was growing in the group as to what to do with their success and newfound fame. “I think they are hearing us.” Carol was saying practically beaming. “I doubt it,” Jim responded gruffly. “Listen I think we should demand Congress hold an emergency session and take a vote on an assault Rifle ban.” “Maybe,” Richard agreed. “Maybe? A vote ‘no’ now would be a vote to kill a couple of hundred people in the next room.” Arthur turned to face Carol. He expected a bit of cold feet or weakened of resolve but he couldn’t afford to have the group splintered. For a message to be clear it has to be spoken with one voice. He slowly rested his hand casually on the berretta on his hip. Jim was the only one to notice. “The government does not negotiate with Terrorist or Hostage takers. Period. The only sure fire to NOT get what we want is to demand it.” “Listen all I’m saying is that we have this position here and we can do more with it. We can-“ “My daughter,” Mrs. Rekoy interrupted Carol loudly. Her eyes were wide and fiery, “Told me she had a surprise for me when she came home from school…. It was my birthday that day. I wonder everyday what the surprise was; the surprise that a man with this gun that I’m holding took away from me. This gun that these people in that room defend and promote and advocate the sale of. My little gir-“ Mrs. Rekoy held back the tears. She composed herself. “I didn’t come here for legislation or a vote. I went along with the first part of this plan because I had to in order get to this part. And now I intend on doing what I came here to do.” Mrs. Rekoy got within an inch of Carol’s face. “And may God have mercy on you if you intend to stop me.” Carol look around. She thought to protest, to appeal to logic. The faces on her audience were clear. In the background Arthur’s laptop began to beep. The police had breached realizing the charges were fake. It wouldn’t matter by the time they got here, it would be over. Mrs. Rekoy walked away from Carol, exiting the large conference room and entering the open office floor. The shots began to ring out almost immediately. Not rapid, but slow and methodical; cold. Mr. Rekoy joined her followed by Jim and Arthur. The screams and begging that could be heard between the burst was making Carol nauseous. It made her blood reverse direction and suck back into the heart. Richard stopped in front of her on his way in to join. “That feeling … That feeling that they are having right now. It’s the last feeling that my eight year old son felt. The terror, the disbelief,… the helplessness. Crying, wishing for someone to come and stop it. Wishing for me to come and save him…. That’s the last feeling these people will have.” Richard loaded a fresh magazine and chambered the first round. “It’s the last feeling your daughter had.” Richard exited the room leaving her with that fact. She mulled it for only a moment before its accuracy proved true. She cocked her MXC and entered as well. The thoughts and images of her daughter swirling in her head.

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“Look at this,” Lt O’Brien motioned Davis over the lifeless body of Arthur Williams. “Just like the others. Every single one of these guys had Kevlar vests and at least three extra ammo clips each. And yet all of their rifles are empty and all the vest are piled up in the corner.” “They took out the magazines on purpose.” Davis stated. “Why?” “Killing Cops wasn’t a part of the Agenda apparently.” “So they never planned on making any demands? Never planned on even trying to leave?” O’Brien questioned. “Nope.” Lt. Davis responded as he began to walk out. There was nothing for him to do here. “So they just walk in kill as many people as they can and wait for the cops to kill them?” O’Brien asked. Davis Shrugged. “That’s the American way, isn’t it?” He wasn’t wrong.