Chapter 1

Henry McRoss stood at the edge of the dock, watching the blue-canopied speed boat traverse the far shoreline.  The distant whir of the engine floated back on the breeze.  Occasionally he could catch the high pitched squeals of his daughters.  The boat moved rapidly to the north, then seemed to stop as it turned either toward or away from Henry.  Then back again to the south. 

Other boats crisscrossed the center of the lake.  The boats pulling skiers held their straight-line counterclockwise trek around the shoreline.  Occasionally one sped past Henry on the dock.  Pursuant to the unwritten up-north custom, first the driver then the skier would wave as they passed.  Henry gave the obligatory wave in response.

The tubers zigged and zagged, acting as the primary wave-generators, agitating, but not stopping the skiers.  Like his daughters being pulled behind his father-in-law’s boat, screams of fear and delight trailed behind those boats.

The fishermen were spread thoughout various hotspots on the lake, stoically stationary, frustrating the purpose of the recreational boaters.  Ski hours be damned, the fishing charts told them now was the time.  They’d brave the rough waters of the tubers and the middle fingers of the skiers to land the monster catch.

Henry saw his father-in-law’s boat begin to round the eastern edge of the lake as if it were coming home.  He tapped his foot on the dock impatiently hoping that was the case.  He didn’t want to leave without kissing his girls goodbye. 

His eldest daughter Allison was 10 years old.  She had inherited her father’s dark brown hair, and general risk-aversion.  Gabrielle, on the other hand, inherited her mother’s light complexion, green eyes, and complete lack of any instinct for self-preservation.  Although Gabi was only 8, she happily jumped on the tube at age 5.  Allison, on the other hand wouldn’t even ride on the boat until she was 8.  Only last year had she reluctantly agreed to join Gabi for a slow trip around the lake.  Too tame by Gabi’s standards, but at least it was a start.  This year Allison had graduated to leaving the wake.  Gabi was already making her way up the ladder to become a world class water skier.  With a little help from her Uncle Tom, Henry’s wife was convinced Gabi would be on one ski by the end of their vacation.

Henry’s closely cropped hair was motionless against the breeze.  He stood just taller than six foot, athletic build from his dedication to physical labor.  His daily work activities alleviated any need for working out.  He was sufficiently fit for age 36.  His deep blue eyes, protected by a pair of black wraparound sunglasses, scanned the lake trying to read his father-in-law’s intentions.

Despite the heat, Henry McRoss wore his dark blue collared shop shirt and a pair on neatly pressed khakis.  The shirt bore his company logo, “McRoss” emblazoned in gold on the breast pocket.  He wore a pair of tan work shoes.  Even though Henry was the sole owner and CEO of McRoss, he remained indistinguishable from any other employee, not only in dress, but in duty.

Henry was born and raised in Conneaut, Ohio.  As an only child, Henry exhibited early signs of being an over achiever.  He wasn’t content with the standard lemonade stand.  He brought the show on the road, selling to neighbors door-to-door.  He began working during his freshman year of high school as a bag-boy at the local Krogers.  In the summer between his junior and senior year he took a job on the maintenance crew at the local dock company.  He was well liked by the regulars, but could not understand how to navigate through the union and company politics.  At the beginning of his senior year, he quit the maintenance crew and began freelancing, doing janitorial work for local businesses.   By the end of high school he had earned enough to pay for his first year of college.

He attended Emory University studying business.  While a college student, Henry continued to contract out to area businesses for cleaning and maintenance work.  As a sophomore, he met Karen Keene, a second year nursing student.  Eventually Henry was able to earn his Bachelor’s in Business Administration through Emory’s Goizueta Business School.  He graduated debt free, completing his studies in only three years.

Henry chose to stay with Karen at Emory, working toward his Master’s Degree.  During his first year in the program, he lost his parents to an automobile accident.  While returning from their Florida condo, Henry’s father suffered a heart attack behind the wheel.  Henry’s mother was apparently asleep in the seat next to him.  At least Henry hoped she was.  The car drifted off the road and struck a bridge support, killing both instantly.  Henry’s reaction was to double down on his studies.  He quit his side job and poured himself completely into his school work.

After Karen earned her degree, she began working as an obstetrics nurse at Piedmont Hospital.  A year later Henry completed his graduate program at the top of his class, landing a job in a downtown brokerage firm.  That summer, Karen and Henry were married in her hometown of Appleton, Wisconsin.  Aside from a few mutual college friends, the only person on Henry’s side to attend was his mother’s older brother Alex.

Henry’s career progress through the firm was certainly on track.  He exceed all goals for a young star in the firm.  He impressed his bosses and began to build his own client base.  Despite his successes, he complained to his wife that he didn’t feel like he was doing anything productive.

Henry would never forget the day he quit.  Completely against his personality type, he made the decision during the elevator ride up to his office.  He told his managing partner that although he appreciated the opportunity, the work just wasn’t for him.  The partner stared dumbfounded as Henry shook his hand and left.  He then drove to a Ford dealership in his suburb and traded in his BMW 5 series for a dark blue pick-up truck.  He returned home, enjoyed a beer and waited for his wife to finish her shift.  When she got home, he proudly declared that he was now the boss of his own maintenance company.  He expected to be met with some skepticism.  He did not expect the reaction he actually got.  “You idiot, I’m pregnant!” 

Despite her misgivings, within two years Henry had a solid book of business and three employees.  At the end of his third year he hired Karen’s little sister’s boyfriend who had graduated from the University of Wisconsin and recently completed two tours of duty in Afghanistan.  Within four years Henry was a major competitor in the market with more than 20 employees.  Now, he had 57 hard-working men and women earning a living as a result of his uncharacteristically bold decision a decade prior.

“You ready to hit it?” he heard his brother-in-law Tom ask from the grassy shore.  Tom’s appearance was a significantly more laid back than Henry’s.  He wore a pair of plaid shorts and a white golf shirt.  Tom was slightly taller than Henry, but not nearly in as good of shape.  He had a mop of relatively unkempt dirty blonde hair, and a pair of wire rimmed sunglasses perched on top. 

“Hold on,” Henry said.  “I want to say bye to the girls.  Looks like your dad’s heading in.” 

Tom joined Henry on the edge of the dock.  “It’d be nice, huh?  No work.  Stay up here.  When I was a kid up here, we’d ski rain or shine.  You couldn’t get us out of the water.  I learned to drive that boat when I was ten.  Allison’s ten.  She doesn’t seem ready.”

“No she doesn’t.” Henry paused.  “Gabi might be.  Allison isn’t.”

“You know Henry,”  Tom continued, “when Karen first brought you up here, you used to ski too.  Now, not so much.  Why’s that?  I think your girls would be impressed if they knew what a stud their dad was.” Tom finished, jabbing Henry in the ribs with his elbow.

“Thanks Tom, but I’m getting too old for that.”

“For ‘that’?” he asked with exasperation, gesturing quotation marks on either side of his face.  “For fun?  When you and Karen were in college you were a lot more fun.”

“We’re getting old Tom.”

“You’re getting old.  I’m still young.”  Tom replied with conviction.  “Growing up wrecks everything.”

At 30 years old, Tom was certainly an adult by Henry’s measure.  “Yeah, pretty much everything,” Henry answered.  But he didn’t really think so.  He liked his time with the in-laws, but had difficulty relaxing.  He was too focused on his company.  He enjoyed every ounce of responsibility, every ounce of achievement and fought daily to remain at the top of his field.  From the minute he started his vacation, he was counting down the days until he could return to his crew in Georgia.

Henry and Tom watched the boat make a quick turn north, then east, then south again. “He ain’t coming back any time soon.” Tom observed.  “We’ve got to head out if you’re going to make the flight.”

“Fair enough.  Let’s get going.”  The two men turned to walk up the green lawn leading to the cedar sided house on the western shore of Maiden Lake.  “Karen,” Henry shouted to the house.  “Tom and I are taking off.”

“Hold it,” Henry’s wife shouted back from the screened window of the kitchen.  “Hold it, I’ll be right out.”  She emerged from the porch on the side of the house, meeting Henry and Tom on the brick patio leading to the driveway.  Her sun bleached hair bore witness that she’d spent the last week on the dock, watching her two little girls at play.  Karen McRoss stood about 5’10”, light complexion and slight of build.  She wore a blue one-piece bathing suit with a light wrap tied neatly around her waist. 

“I was just making some sandwiches for the girls.  Stay for one?” She asked.

“I’ve got to get going or I’m not going to make the flight.  Can I have one for the road?”

“Absolutely, hold on.  Tom?” she asked her little brother while retreating to the house.

“No thanks.”

She emerged with two triangles of wheat bread, salami and mustard.  “Here you go.” She said, handing them to her husband.  “Now make sure you get Max by five.  The kennel lady doesn’t allow after hour pick-ups.  Don’t just eat pizza while we’re gone.  And don’t sit up all night watching TV.  The girls go to bed at 7:00, so please be available for webcam before that.”

“Yeah, okay.” Henry dutifully replied to his wife’s list of demands.

“You promised them you’d webcam every night, so please make sure you’re around.”

“Got it.”

“Call me during the day so I know you’re fine.”

“I get busy honey.”

“Let’s go Henry,” Tom chimed in.

“Just call occasionally, or send me a text.”

“I will,” he leaned down to give her a kiss.  She smelled of suntan lotion and salami.

“I don’t know why you can’t take off more than a week.  Jeff is doing fine running the shop.  Besides, he takes off more time than you and he’s your employee.  Last year Jeff and Lisa spent two weeks up here.”

“I need to get back.”

“Mom,” Karen yelled back into the house “didn’t Jeff spend two weeks here last year?”

“Too late Karen, I have to go.  Let’s not fight.”

“He did,” came his mother-in-law’s reply from the kitchen window.  “You should too Henry.  You should spend more time with your girls.  They’re gonna grow up and you’re gonna miss it.”  She scolded from the house.

“Thanks for your advice, mom,” he called back in response.  “Bye now,” he said to his wife.  “Gotta go, mom.” He yelled back at the disembodied voice coming from behind the screen.

“What’d he say?” his mother-in-law called back.

Henry rolled his eyes at his wife.  “Gotta go sweetie.  I’ll talk to you tonight.”

Tom stood with his right foot on the sill of the driver’s side door.  His black Porsche idled while the air conditioning blasted cold air out over the hot driveway.  “Come on Karen, let him go,  I’ve gotta get out of here too.”

Henry picked up his small duffle bag from the patio and walked toward the forward trunk of Tom’s car.  “No room, sorry,” Tom said dismissively then plugged himself into the driver’s seat.  Henry looked back at his wife, shook his head and began the process of cramming himself into the passenger seat, his duffle bag mounted uncomfortably on his lap.

Tom pulled the black sports car into the right drop-off lane stopping at the first set of sliding doors.  “There you go big guy.”

“Thanks Tom.  What have you got on your plate today?”

“Just stopping by the office to see what’s up, golf with my loan officer and dinner with some friends tonight.  Are you flying direct?”

“No, Appleton to Detroit, Detroit to Atlanta.  I’ve got Jeff dropping off a truck at the other end, so I’ll be set.”

“Well, have a good flight man.  I’ll see you in November.”

“What’s November?” Henry querried.

“Anna and I are coming down for Thanksgiving.  If she’s still my girlfriend, that is.”

“What’s up with that?  You guys seemed fine last weekend.”

“Nothing up.  November’s a long way away, you never know.”  Tom was the youngest of the three Keene children; six years younger than Henry’s wife, and four years younger than Lisa.  Despite having a very successful career as a personal injury attorney, he took little else seriously. 

Henry had known Tom since he was a freshman in High School.  Until his current girlfriend, Henry had never known Tom to date a girl longer than six months.  He’d been with Anna for the last three years.  Lisa and Karen had been hounding him to propose, to absolutely no effect.

Upon graduating from law school in Milwaukee, Tom took a job with a small Appleton law firm doing plaintiff personal injury work.  He built up a significant case load and left the firm after two short years.  Since that time he built a decent practice of his own, occasionally dabbling in real estate investment.  His revenues varied wildly from year to year, but he always seemed to be on top.

“Time to grow up Tom.  You’re 30.”

“No thanks Hank.  I’m good,” Tom replied glibly. 

Henry cringed.  He hated that name, only second to his sister in laws pet name for him.  He remembered when Tom was a short awkward acne-covered freshman.  He was a disrespectful smart ass back then too.

Tom leaned over the center console so his brother-in-law could see him through the open passenger door.  He gave Henry a thumbs-up signaling for him to shut the passenger-side door and go away.

Henry shot him a quick smile and slammed the door shut.  Even though he thought his brother-in-law led a fairly frivolous lifestyle, he did envy him on some level.  Without any serious family ties, Tom had the option to devote a lot more time to his career, even though he never did.  Success seemed to come to Tom by happenstance.  Henry had to work very hard for it.  At least that was his impression.  With that sort of time, Henry could focus almost entirely on his business.  Unlike Tom, he’d actually do it.

Henry checked in at the ticket kiosk and made his way to security.  Appleton never had a line for security, and this time was no exception.  Regardless, it was still a hassle.  He fondly remembered a time when security meant a metal detector and carry-on X-ray. 

Once he reached the plane, Henry noted with a great deal of pleasure that there was no one in the seat next to him.  On takeoff he scooted over to the window to watch the farmland get smaller and smaller.  He had flown in and out of Appleton so many times before.  He enjoyed the sight of the ordered streets, the patchwork of farm fields, instantly recognizable highways carrying the travelers through the sparse countryside to the next city.

The plane initially headed to the southwest, then made a sharp turn to the east flying just south of Appleton.  He saw the small city to his left, and Highway 41 on its way north to Green Bay.  He had no idea this was the last time he would ever take in this sight.

On touchdown in Atlanta, Henry pulled his smartphone from his pocket and turned it on.  He noted three texts from his wife, and one from Jeff Grant, his brother-in-law.  He ignored the three from his wife and opened Jeff’s.

“Carl f-ed up the scissor lift.  Window broken.  Client pissed.  Call me.”

“You may now turn on your cellphones.” Henry heard over the PA system.  Oops, he thought to himself.

He hit Jeff’s speed dial and hoped for the best.  “I’m back, what happened?”

“Hey Henry, how was the flight?”

“Fine, what happened?” Henry pressed.

“Carl was doing a pressure wash on that apartment at Mitchell and Spring.  Apparently there is some sort of protest down by the federal building.  He was sort of not paying attention, watching the protest, and he accidently moved the lift forward instead of sideways and he busted one of the apartment windows.”

“Was the tenant home?” Henry asked.

“Yep, freaked out.  Then called the management company.  They said they were going to cancel our contract.”

“Come on Jeff?”

“Don’t worry, I talked the guy down.  I got some plywood up over the window.  I’ve ordered new glass, so we should be good.”

“Then you don’t really need me?”

“Well, initially I thought I would need you to talk to the manager, so I left that message for you.  I did settle that, but there’s another problem.”  Jeff let his words hang on the line for a moment.

“Well?” Henry pushed.

“I thought we would get going on the project again once I sorted the manager, so I left the lift down there.”

“And?” Henry said, almost pleading for Jeff to get it out.

“As we were talking to the manager in the apartment, the crowd from the protest seemed to drift down by us.  They won’t let us take the lift.”

“What do you mean they won’t let you take it?”

“I didn’t feel like pushing things, but in short, there is a crowd of people surrounding the lift and the trailer, and they’re telling us we can’t have our lift back.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m in my truck about three blocks away from the building.  I keep looking down the street to see if they’ve left, but they’re still there.”

Henry checked his watch. Not quite two thirty, I’ve got time to get this done and still get the dog. “Where are you parked, I’ll be right there.”

“The parking lot at Trinity and Spring. We put your truck on the second level of the south deck.  See you in thirty”

As Henry drove into the parking lot off of Trinity Street, he saw Jeff’s dark blue pick-up truck idling on the south edge of the lot.  The name “McRoss” emblazoned in gold on the door.  Henry pulled his matching truck next to Jeff’s.  “It’s down there?” Henry asked, indicating to the dwindling crowd north of the parking lot.

“Yep, just around the corner next to the building.  It’s locked out and I have the key, so they can’t really do anything with it.”

What would they do with it? Henry thought to himself.  “Let me walk down and check it out.  I’ll give you a call.”  Henry parked his truck in an empty space and began the walk up the street.

As he approached, he saw two separate groups of people.  There was a large crowd assembled on to the northwest at the federal courthouse and a smaller crowd near the corner of Mitchell and Spring where his lift was apparently being held hostage.  From his vantage point he could see what appeared to be between one and two hundred people on the courthouse steps, chanting and carrying signs.

At Mitchell and Spring there were only around twenty people.  They appeared to be taking a break from the protest up the street, relaxing in the shade of the apartment building.  As he rounded the corner, he saw his lift, parked parallel to the north side of the building.  The lift was dark blue with his gold logo emblazoned on its side.  A few people were sitting on the edge of the lift smoking cigarettes.  His dark blue trailer sat in a parking space on the south side of the street.  There were four guys sitting on that, leaning on their protest signs and lazily chatting.

As Henry stood on the corner, no one regarded him, or even seemed to notice he was there.  They were all talking amongst themselves.  Henry considered the situation and pondered why Jeff had any difficulty with these guys.  He thought he might be able to ask politely, even ask for their help.  After all, they appeared to have the build of working men.  He looked up the road at the courthouse and considered the possibility that the crowd around the lift might have been larger earlier in the day. 

Before engaging the men at the lift, Henry decided to walk north and survey the situation at the courthouse.  The time was 3:15.  He figured if he could get close enough to the group he could figure out whether the protest was just beginning or coming to an end.   The closer he got, he noted there did not seem to be any focus.  There were no speakers and no one seemed to be leading the chants.  He saw preprinted signs with slogans such as “JUSTICE NOW”, “NO JUSTICE NO PEACE”, and his favorite “EAT THE RICH”.  None of the signs appeared to be handmade.  The protest seemed somewhat manufactured. 

He sighed and continued north, considering the situation as he walked.  He thought again about saying a few polite words to the men, wish them a nice day and carry on with loading the lift onto the trailer.

When he reached the midpoint of the block, he could begin to see east on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive.  There appeared to be larger groups of people coming and going from the east.  He decided to walk to the corner of Spring and MLK to survey the area.  When he reached the corner, he saw thousands of people, in front of the Nunn and MLK federal buildings.  There was a speaker standing on the wall along the street shouting slogans and propaganda into a bullhorn.  The roads remained clear for the most part, but Henry could tell by the flow of people that the tide was rising rather than receding. 

The police presence was nonexistent.  The traffic was thus far winning the territorial battle for the street, but Henry could see the crowd busting at the artificial barrier.  Occasionally a person would pop from the edge of the crowd into the street, then quickly retreat back to safety.  He started his way down MLK to see if he could make sense of the squawking bullhorn. 

As he made his way casually down the block, he noted several groups varying in size from three to ten people walking along the sidewalk with him either toward the large protest at the federal building or away to the smaller demonstration in front of the court house.  They held their signs high, either singing inane revolution songs or simply chatting with each other.  Still, no one seemed to pay any attention to Henry, so he continued.

He got about fifty yards down MLK when he saw the fuse lit.  To Henry, it appeared as if it happened in slow motion.  One brick spit out of the top of the mob on the north side of the street.  It seemed that all of the people around him caught sight of it at exactly the same time.  It appeared to hang in the air longer than gravity should permit.  It was palpable that all eyes traced its trajectory out of the crowd, to its apex over the intersection, through the front window of black minivan waiting to turn left onto Forsyth.

In an instant MLK transformed from a street into a shotgun.  The small crowds walking along side Henry merged together like buckshot rushing down the barrel.  Henry ran to the center of the street to get a better view, initially stopping against the momentum of the firestorm of humanity rushing past him.  He saw the crowd converge on the minivan.  Standing on his tip toes, he saw the crowd yanking the compromised windshield from its frame.  Once free it was tossed haphazardly backwards into the crowd.  Then he saw a man violently yanked from the driver’s seat through the front window, and quickly disappear into the crowd.  He saw the van being rocked back and forth until the side windows eventually gave way.  The van was consumed under the frantic mob.  Occasionally, the mass of humans on the van would contort and shift as if they had were removing and transporting another victim from the van.  It looked to Henry as if the crowd was acting as one organism, digesting its prey.

After pausing briefly, Henry’s first instinct was to run toward the van along with the rabid bunch running alongside him.  He foolishly believed he might be able to help, to bring sense to the situation.  After three steps forward he recognized he could do nothing to stop the mayhem.  He turned on his heels and began running back up MLK to Spring.  When he reached Spring he pulled his cellphone from his pocket and called Jeff.

“What’s the deal?” Jeff answered casually.

“Pull the truck around and get the trailer hooked up.” Henry shouted into the phone.  He was sprinting at full speed. 

Jeff could hear his brother-in-law panting hard.  “Are you running?”

“Don’t go down Forsyth.”  Henry gasped.

“What’s going on Henry?” Jeff pleaded.

“Hurry up Jeff.  I’ll be there in a minute.”  He spat back into the receiver.  Henry hung up and shoved the phone back into his breast pocket, never missing stride.

As Henry ran, he noticed the reaction of the crowd at the Court House and beyond.  Each individual acted like one small part of a malignant virus.  The reaction rippled through the crowd one person at a time.  They would reach for their phones, either in their pockets, purses or backpacks.  They would momentarily look down at the texts or twitter posts.  One by one the disease of ultra-violence spread through the crowd.  They all seemed to mindlessly respond to the electronic call for chaos.

At first they peeled off individually from the courthouse steps and began running up to MLK.  Then larger masses began to move, until a steady flow of hate was moving north on Spring Street.

Henry kept sprinting, weaving his way through the oncoming storm.  On their faces they looked both euphoric and maniacal at the same time.  They appeared to be in a hate-filled trance.  Their objective was at the corner of Martin Luther King Jr. Drive and Forsyth.  Everything in between was distraction.  They ignored the clean-cut man weaving through them against their tidal movement.

When Henry reached Mitchell, he noted that the group of folks at his lift had become smaller.  There were only a few large men loitering nearby.  They were looking at the messages on their phone, but they were not leaving.

Henry stopped dead at the corner and grabbed his knees to catch his breath.  He liked to think he was in fairly good shape, but he’d never been much for sprinting.  His lungs felt like they were on fire.  As he brought himself erect, he placed his hands on his hips, and breathed deeply. 

In response to Henry’s audible gasps for oxygen, a stocky man standing about 5’8” with a shaved head raised his eyes from his phone and looked squarely at Henry.  “McRoss?” the stocky man asked with some grit in his voice.

In response, Henry panted and grabbed his knees again.  He wasn’t exactly sure what the guy had asked him.  Does this guy recognize me? He thought to himself.

“McRoss?” the guy asked again, this time walking toward Henry.

Henry rose again and looked at the man quizzically.  It suddenly dawned on him that he was wearing the dark blue shop shirt with “McRoss” written in gold across his breast pocket.  “Yeah.” Henry said casually, trying to be friendly. “Hey, you guys are in the right place, a riot just broke out on Forsyth.”

“We know.” The stocky man responded, putting his phone in his jeans pocket.  “McRoss isn’t union.” the stocky one said with accusation in his voice.  He wasn’t asking, he knew.

“Um, I don’t think so,” Henry said stupidly, playing off that he was an uninformed cog in the machine rather than the top dog.  As he said it, he saw Jeff round the corner and begin to line the truck up to the trailer.  “Hey guys,” he continued casually, “I’ve got to get this thing out of here.” He said, motioning to the lift.  “Any chance you can help me and my friend here guide it onto the trailer.”  He didn’t actually need any help.  He was merely trying to appeal to the working-stiff mentality.  He knew guys like this.  At least he thought he did.

The group began to move forward toward Henry.  “McRoss is pretty big.”  Said a lanky twenty-something sporting a long straggly goatee and tattoos up both arms.  “You guys do the Conference Center, don’t you?”

“I think.” Henry responded nervously.  His voice trailed off as he thought about what to say next.  “Lot of folks up there by the courthouse.  Any chance you guys could watch my back while we load this thing up?”  Henry turned to his left to see Jeff backing into the spot in front of the trailer.

“No, this is ours.” Said the stocky thug.

“Now look,” Henry began in a measured voice.

“No, you look,” said a 50-something rotund man with red hair and a scraggly beard.  He looked like he wanted to be a biker but was clearly too fat to lift a leg over a cycle.  “We don’t help scabs.”

“Scabs?!” Jeff said with some surprise.  He stomped down on the clasp holding the tongue to the truck hitch.  Once the trailer was secured, he began walking to Henry’s side “There’s no strike on.”  Jeff said cheerily, continuing to approach Henry.  As he did so, the group began to flank Henry on his right, forming a barrier between him and Jeff.  Another heavily tattooed body-builder type positioned himself facing Jeff while the circle began to enclose around Henry.

“Now wait, we’re just trying to get a job done here guys.  We’ve got no beef with you.  I’m feeding a family too.”  Henry said, both arms raised in a conciliatory stance.

“On our bread.” Said one of the thugs from behind Henry.

“If you’re about ready to load this thing, you must have the key.” the stocky thug piped in.

The lanky one added “Yeah, give us the key to our lift and you can get out of here.  We’ll need the trailer too.” He finished with a nasty smile.

Henry hesitated for a moment.  He wasn’t exactly sure how best to extricate himself and Jeff from this hostile group.  As he looked to his left he saw the growing stream of people heading north up Spring.  To his right he saw Forsyth was still open at this block.  He slowly reached into his breast pocket.  They paused to see if he was retrieving the key.  As his cellphone emerged, he felt the first blow to his left temple.  He had no idea what hit him, but everything went black as his body crumpled to the ground.