“Okay, one was female.” Another pause.
“Look, I don’t know how she identified. Some PSF officers got shot and I think one is a woman.” Pause.
“I don’t know what their gender identity is. They’re bleeding out because they got shot and they’re at the Starbucks and someone better come!” He paused again.
“Me? I identify as anonymous.” Banks hung up.
“Are they coming?” asked Mary.
“I don’t even know,” Banks said, taking up his rifle again.
It was a full three minutes before the quick reaction force of PSF officers began pouring out the front door of the building and heading to the parking lot, most still adjusting their body armor. Banks did not give the signal immediately – actually, there was no signal since the ambush was to be initiated by his rifle fire.
When about a dozen PSF officers were outside and the flow slackened, Banks took aim at one male who was fiddling with his helmet and put a round into his upper torso above his vest – not that the vest itself (as opposed to the trauma plate in front that covered most of his chest) was going to stop a .308 round. The officer was violently thrown onto the hood of a cruiser, and then slid off onto the parking lot asphalt. By the time he hit the ground, Banks was shooting another blue, and all the fifty or so insurgents around the station had opened fire.
The guerillas’ bullets bounced off the outer brick walls, the gutters, and cracked the panes of the high row of windows. The PSF inside tried to defend themselves, but it was difficult. The police station was not a fort, and it was not designed to provide the sheriff’s deputies inside with the mutually supporting fields of fire necessary to defend the position.
Engaging from the front door was a non-starter – no one had removed the body of the PSF officer killed there and no one rushed to take his place. A couple officers tried to rush out the back door. There were no windows at all at the back, so the insurgents had moved up close. The pair of blues had been cut down by a team of insurgents with three Mossberg 12 gauge shotguns and a silver Henry .45-70 lever action repeater that sent its target flying.
There were not a lot of other options. To fire out the windows running just under the roof, the PSF had to push desks against the outer walls, and then stand with head and shoulders exposed to provide aimed fire outside at the attackers. A couple of them tried it. They each drew a swarm of carefully aimed return fire and fell back on the squad room floor, dead before they landed. That was the last of the attempts to fight from the windows.
Banks waved his force around the flank of the parking lot. The few PSF survivors fighting from behind vehicles realized they were in a crossfire. Within a few moments, most of them were dead or wounded. A couple of them tossed away their AKs and shouted that they were giving up. Insurgents rushed into the parking lot, and spirited them away as other guerrillas took up positions closer to the building.
A bulldozer, its blade low, fired up down the street when Banks signaled it. As it passed, Banks, Mary and a couple others took cover behind the blade and awkwardly moved forward toward the front of the station behind the steel’s protection. About 30’ from the front door, they stopped. From inside, there were some shots and sparks flew off the outer side of the dozer blade. Everyone returned fire into or around the front entrance, and the PSF’s return fire was not repeated.
“Hey, you in there! Come out and talk!” shouted Banks. Nothing. No movement, no response.
Turnbull and Langer rushed over to them, low and fast. Turnbull carried his Remington and had slipped on his shades and a tan ball cap. Langer had not picked up a long weapon yet.
“What’s the situation?” Turnbull asked.
“Got probably a dozen already. There’s some inside but they aren’t really engaging.”
“Any contact?”
“Not since they shot at us a minute ago.”
Turnbull nodded, and yelled.
“Hey you in there, tell your commander to come out and talk!”
Nothing.
“Hey assholes, I’m not waiting all day. Tell your CO to get out here.”
Nothing.
“Dumb shits,” Turnbull said, shaking his head.
“I got an idea,” Langer said.
“Go for it,” said Turnbull. Langer grinned.
“Okay boys,” he yelled. “Bring up the gas cans. Get it splashed on there good.”
The insurgents shrugged, confused. Banks gestured them to stay put. Turnbull smiled, then yelled again.
“You sure you don’t want to talk?”
Then a voice came from inside,
“We, we have prisoners!”
“I know,” Turnbull replied.
“You burn us, you burn them,” said the voice.
“Yeah, well you ought to be thinking hardest about the ‘burn us’ part. That should be your priority.”
“We should discuss a deal,” said the voice.
“I’m sick of yelling,” Turnbull said over the top of the blade. “You and me on the front steps.”
“How do I know you won’t shoot me?”
“If I was going to shoot you I’d have already started barbequing you. The stairs, now!”
“All right,” replied the voice after a moment.
Turnbull turned to Langer and Banks.
“If those dicks shoot me, go find some gasoline and burn them out.” Langer grinned and nodded. Turnbull stood up behind the blade, came around, and walked up the front steps.
He was greeted by a thin man in civilian clothes.
The man extended his hand. “I am Inspector Kunstler.”
Turnbull regarded the outstretched paw as if it were herpetic.
“So you’re the head motherfucker in charge?” Turnbull asked.
Kunstler seemed taken aback, but rallied. “I’m in charge.”
“You must be PBI. Sorry about all your pals.”
“What do mean?” asked Kunstler.
“You’re lucky you headed into work early. Your Junior Gestapo guys – we hit them all. Oh, and your PSF chief Kessler too. Her coffee came with extra lead.”
“That’s no loss,” Kunstler said. “So, you have a proposal?”
“No. Here’s how this happens,” Turnbull said. “You all come out without weapons and we don’t kill you all.”
“I’d like—”
“Oh, did I give you the false impression that this is a negotiation? Tell your punk pals to leave their weapons and come on out and we won’t do you.”
“We do have some of your friends inside, and that could be problematic for you if we have to keep fighting.”
“I have plenty of friends. I won’t miss a few.”
Kunstler looked him over. “No, I don’t believe you would. You aren’t from here, are you?”
“Are we sharing now? You should really be focused on convincing us not to shoot you.”
“You’re in better shape than the locals, and you carry yourself differently. Military. You’re an infiltrator, aren’t you? You’re the one behind all this terrorism.”
“Hey Sherlock, the only terrorism in Jasper is you shitheads.”
“One man’s terrorist is—”
“Don’t say it. I hate that cliché. Now, you talk an awful lot, Inspector, and I think you’re about ten words away from me shooting you right here and now, truce or not. Are you surrendering, or do I need to get all Kingston on your asses?”
Kunstler seemed confused.
“Kingston. It’s a kind of charcoal briquette. You know, for barbequing? Oh, right, you banned grilling because of global warming. I ought to shoot you just because of that.”
“It’s global cooling. Science tells us we’re facing another ice age.”
“Enough. Are you coming out or not?”
“How will we be treated?” Kunstler asked.
“I promise not to shoot you all. That’s the deal. In or out.”