She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) (27 page)

            With renewed fury, the ex-marine gets to his
feet, moving like a man on a mission, feeling like a predatory animal whose
lair has been invaded.  He moves back inside the house with the intensity of a
heavyweight boxer, keeping his eyes to the ground and realizing what battle
lies ahead.  Phillip walks to the back bedroom and checks on Letisha, ensuring
that she is still sound asleep from the pills that he did allow her to take.

            After verifying that his wife is safe, he blows
her a kiss, immersed in horrible regret for not being at home when the attack
took place.  With steady, powerful hands, Phillip grabs his cell phone and dials
a familiar number, hoping for someone to answer.

            “Dotty, this is Phil,” he says in a whisper,
“you said I could call if we needed anything… Well, tonight I need you to come
over and be here with Letisha…” He pauses for a moment, watching from his
kitchen window as the neighbor’s bedroom light turns on.  “Yeah, come on in the
front door, I need to go take care of something…  If you see anything strange
or anybody tries something, I want you to call the police… No, nothing to worry
about, just being careful… Okay, love you too, I’ll see you soon! Bye…”

            The streetlights come toward Phillip’s blue,
F150 Pickup Truck in perfectly symmetric rows as he drives across town to Inglewood.  He keeps his eyes open for the familiar, spray-painted tags that will let him
know when he has reached gang territory.  After a few blocks, he begins to see
black and red paint, showing off symbols on concrete walls created by the local
Bloods.  His chest seizes up with aggression and pain as he makes his way from
one block to the next, something he has done many nights before.  Unlike
previous nights, he has the terrible image of his wife’s brutal assault burned
into his mind, sent to him right after dinner by some anonymous coward. 

            Phillip notices a few drug dealers on the
corner, but they are only around the age of thirteen, and he is not in the
water for small fish tonight.  His instincts tell him that there are much
larger and more dangerous creatures somewhere just around the corner, lurking
in the darkness behind their younger recruits.  The .45 caliber pistol feels
good against the palm of his hand.  He grips it with the hollow desire for
revenge, imagining the damage that he can do to these pieces of trash with one
quick swipe of his hand.  Gun violence is nothing new to this battle-hardened
marine.  He won’t be needing any liquid courage tonight, not with the proof of
their evil deeds in his right pocket.

            Phillip pulls over to the side of the road,
hearing the familiar sound of rap music blaring through the neighborhood.  He
looks to his right in the side view mirror, watching a house just a bit to the
rear of his vehicle.  The place looks to be filled with gangsters, as it has
been most other nights when he traveled this deep into his revenge fantasy. 
Almost everyone in the yard is wearing some form of red shirt or a singular
bandana tied around one of their limbs.  These are the big fish he has been
looking for, the smarter, stronger bunch of hardcore thugs that run operations
from the heart of Inglewood.  In just the six short months since his return, asking
questions and doing surveillance from his truck have helped him to pinpoint
their center of operations.

            Phillip pushes the pistol down the front of his
pants near his stomach, wanting the option to draw if he winds up on his back. 
He checks his tactical knife with the serrated edge, flipping it open using the
single action, and then folding it back into place before putting it away. 
Phillip closes his eyes, taking a few deep breaths in preparation for the
attack.  His hand gently clutches the door handle and he opens it slowly,
slipping out of the truck to the sidewalk.  He immediately closes the door,
pushing it just enough to hear the click.  Then he starts to walk forward to
the other end of the block; away from the house and loud rap music.  Phillip
knows that the gang members are watching him as he moves through their
territory, especially for the fact that he is in their neighborhood, driving a
large, blue truck; the color of their sworn enemies.  He makes his way around
the corner, ducking down behind a brick wall where he can wait for their
suspicions to fade.   

            After a few minutes pass, Phillip crouches down
and moves stealthily behind a row of parked cars just two houses down from his
target.  He keeps his body hidden, squatting and moving from vehicle to
vehicle, watching the gang members as they socialize with animated hand gestures
on the front lawn.  Phillip closes his eyes for a moment, realizing that he
might not make it back to Letisha.  He meditates silently, crouched behind a
classic, black jaguar.  His feet feel uncomfortable with the rough asphalt
pressing hard into his toes, bearing the full weight of his body.  The cool
breeze makes him shiver as he makes his way up the line of cars, watching for
any sudden movements in the yard that is now just twenty feet to his left. 

            As he reaches the tail of a yellow H2 Hummer,
Phillip notices a six-foot gap between this vehicle and the black, Volkswagen
Beetle that will provide him cover to make his assault.  He gets down on his
stomach and starts to crawl slowly toward his next hiding spot.  To his
surprise, a white beam turns the corner up ahead and he sees a truck driving
casually up the street in his direction.  Phillip rolls to his left, hoping
that no one has spotted him, placing himself between the Beetle and Hummer.  He
scoots his body back toward the VW Beetle when the truck gets closer, feeling
the asphalt tug at his pants.  Soon the truck passes him, creaking its way down
the street with a rough-running engine and a gray, rusted-out frame.  Phillip
holds his breath as the truck exits the street, leaving just the sound of the
rap music and gang members talking incessantly behind him.  He rolls back
around to the driver side of the Beetle, crouching next to it as he closes in
on his target, feeling less exposed behind the shiny, black Beetle.

            As he crouches near the rear of the small car,
Phillip retrieves the pistol from the front of his pants, grateful that it
won’t be able to chafe him anymore.  He puts one knee against the ground next
to the rear tire, leaning over the back window to spy on his targets in safety.
 

            There are five men talking and laughing in the
front yard.  Three of them have gathered into a semi-circle, smoking cigars as
they tell jokes and try to one-up each other with their stories.  Two more gang
enforcers are sitting on the steps in front of the home; one with his arms
folded, and the other expressing himself with lucid hand gestures, engaged in a
more serious conversation. 

Phillip grips his pistol tight,
trying to decide how many men he can take down while still having enough time
to make it back to the safety of his truck thirty feet away, and on the other
side of the street.  He puckers his lips and blows out a smooth stream of air,
allowing his body and muscles to relax.  His training taught him that tension
leads to poor marksmanship.  A loose, steady shooting hand will provide
superior accuracy to a robotic, anxious grip.  Phillip takes a moment to check
the action of his semi-automatic pistol, pulling back on the slide to insert a
round in the chamber.  His stomach begins to growl as he turns the weapon in
his hand to ensure the safety is off, licking his lips as he knows the moment
is approaching.  The young man takes another moment to plan his escape route,
watching for any obstructions between himself and the truck, deciding that he’ll
only have time to fire upon the three men at the front of the yard. 

            The evening air is suddenly filled with the
premature and unwelcome sound of gunshots, firing in bursts of three rounds. 
Phillip instinctively leans back into the safety of the steel car, feeling
panic spread through his body as he looks around to see where the gunfire is
coming from.  He rotates his head with alarm to the left and right, not seeing anyone
near him.  Another three-round burst erupts from the shadows of the street and
Phillip stares into the distance with a guise of genuine shock.  From the flash
of the barrel, he can see that the gunfire is coming from a shooter across the
street, resting their hands on the hood of his blue truck.  He gazes up
hopelessly, mortified by the knowledge that the bullets are flying over his
head at the gang house behind him, alerting everyone inside.

            His heart rate begins to accelerate, and he
breathes out in deep, anxious gasps.  In his state of shock, Phillip almost
fails to notice that his truck engine is running, and glances back across the
street to see someone sitting in the driver seat. 

            A group of ten young gang members comes pouring
out onto the street from behind the parked cars as the blue F150 speeds from of
its parking space and disappears around the corner to the right.  The young men
are all armed, most of them carrying pistols similar to what Phillip holds in
his hand.

            The ex-marine looks up with a haunted expression
from his position on the ground next to the Beetle, knowing that someone has
effectively betrayed him.  There are more armed men standing in front of him
now than he has bullets in his gun. 

            “This is for you, baby!” He says aloud as he
gets to his feet and begins to fire on the group of men from behind.

            There is a brief and deadly volley of gunfire,
crackling through the streets like an electric current, exterminating that one
element which does not belong.  Phillip finds peace for the first time since he
came back from the war, a bath of fiery pain, putting a tortured soul to
rest.                                  

THE OBDAT – CHICAGO

            “Welcome back!  Henri says with a satisfied
expression, holding a mug of coffee across his chest as he waits for his
colleagues from his chair at the center of the OBDAT platform.

            “Last night was insane!”  Lorabell says with
fervent pride, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she walks to her
position on the right side of the control panel.

            “I read the report about Phillip,” Maxwell
begins as he strides to his station with a tall cup of coffee, “that text
message… pushed him over the edge.”

            After staying up working until two in the
morning Chicago time, the three of them are somewhat ragged.  Lorabell and
Maxwell returned to work wearing the same clothing from the previous day, while
Henri is the only one who bothered to put on a fresh suit and tie. 

            “Where were we?” Maxwell says with a blank gaze,
still worn out from the emotional roller coasters of the previous day.

            “We’ve got three down and one to go.”  Lorabell
says with a yawn.  “I have a little bit more for May Ivory, and then The
President will have his data.”

            “Let’s get started!” Henri says, slapping his
hands together in the air hard as if this one action will bring the entire
operation to life.  “Mason is still coordinating from Texas, cleaning up the
murder-suicide, but he’ll be helping us to manage assets in Virginia too.”

MAY IVORY

May lies on the cool surface of the
brown leather couch, staring at the ceiling.  Her face is still sore from a few
nights ago, and she feels betrayed, like a mother hedgehog dug up by an
ignorant farmer.  The young woman is clad in a wrinkled, blue T-shirt that
drapes far past her waist and a pair of cozy, black sweatpants while her feet
are adorned with simple, light blue slippers. 

            “I am the ugly duckling,” she says to herself;
“not the honey badger.”  Her words fall flat in the air, providing a
confessional for her unattractive scar tissue.  “Life is an accident borne in a
kingdom of lies” she mutters lazily, shifting her legs on the lengthy, leather
couch, “and I am the court jester…”

            Her cell phone begins to ring from a few feet
away, likely a call from her publisher about the party.  She rolls over on the
couch, burying her face inside the soft, aesthetically pleasing leather,
wishing she could use it to fix her disfigured body.  May begins to cry, which
she has done repeatedly over the past forty-eight hours; not understanding what
would cause a man to be so cruel. 

            She envisions Ted having drinks and playing pool
at the local bar; discussing the things he did to her and what he saw while
they were together.  May grits her teeth, thinking about the young man at the
market whom she had grown to respect and care for over the years- just another
phony. 

The young woman tries to push it
all down, washed away like the pain from the accident five years ago, but it’s
impossible to deny oneself love when feeling so enamored… even for a short
while.  Her anger erupts again as she pounds the couch cushions with her fists,
displaying the distaste she has for her own stupidity. 

            “What did you do to yourself, you stupid girl?”
She asks aloud, removing her left hand from her eyes to look at the ceiling
again.  “If it’s too good to be true… Then it probably is…”  Her eyes begin to
shed tears as she clenches her teeth in ultimate sorrow, realizing that the
fantasies have betrayed her.  “Why are we programmed to believe we can have the
fairytale life?  Even when there isn’t the slightest hope of anything close to
that..?”