Chapter 7

7.

Jeff pulled his truck into the empty lot across from the shop.  He could still see the lines Henry’s phantom car cut into the gravel and across the grass.  He exited the cab and kicked through the stones looking for something that would tell him who was watching their shop the night before. 

As he surveyed the scene he noticed a red sedan turning off of McFarland.  The sedan slowed as it approached the McRoss facility.  Jeff didn’t recognize the car, nor could he make out the identity of the two occupants who were scrutinizing his business.  As the car pulled into the lot, and then into the disabled space directly in front of the door, Jeff stood by the front of his truck and observed.

“Closed, can we go now?” Jeff heard the driver declare as he emerged from the vehicle.

“Over there,” the other proclaimed as he pointed to Jeff across the street.  Jeff stood a little straighter as he recognized the thug from their dust-up in Atlanta.  “Over there Tony boy.”

“Anthony please,” Jeff heard the other protest as he turned his attention from the building to him and his dark blue truck with McRoss emblazoned on the door.  “Well hold on,” he shuffled his papers and quickly fell in line behind Ericson as he approached Jeff.

Jeff stood straight, but said nothing to the two approaching men.  His face showed no emotion as he studied them and considered the circumstances.  Henry mentioned the afternoon before that the thug flashed his gun in the shop.  He knew anyone dumb enough to reveal he had a gun had no idea how to handle it.  Still, someone holding a gun in any confrontation makes it an armed confrontation.  That was something that needed to be taken seriously.  Jeff sized up the trailing geek and immediately dismissed him as a nonfactor.

“Where’s your boss?  Where’s everyone else?” Ericson shouted to Jeff as he reached the middle of the street.  Jeff stood silently and stared down the man.  “Hey, yo hablo?” Ericson mocked.  As he reached the curb, his eyes suddenly widened, and a grin came across his face.  “Ah, jackass number two.  I didn’t see you here yesterday.  No tire iron around today tough guy.  Or do you have one hidden up your ass?”

Jeff’s hands hung easily at his side.  His face was calm and displayed no appearance of fear, or gave any indication he was under threat of danger.  He merely watched the loud mouth approach as he analyzed every inch of him.  Judging from the distinct right angle cut across his right hip through the loose fitting short sleeved oxford, Jeff noted he was carrying again today.

“Where’s your boss asshole?” he continued to approach, chest puffed out as he reached the bottom of the loose gravel drive.  “Why are you hiding over here?  Where’s your damn boss?  Where is everyone else?  Get your damn boss on the phone.”

Wow, Jeff thought to himself, this guy doesn’t shut up. 

“Do you talk or what?” Ericson said as he stopped about three feet in front of Jeff.  His chin was raised as a sign or aggression, but Jeff noted it only made him look short.

“We’re closed today.” Jeff responded calmly.

“Then what are you doing here?” Ericson poked.

“We were supposed to have a vote here today.” Renovitch piped in, shuffling his papers and adjusting his glasses. 

“I’m sorry, we’re closed.  You’ll have to come back another day.”  Jeff responded calmly.

“Who are you?” Ericson sneered.

“My name is Jeff Grant.  Who are you?”

“What’s your job here?”  Ericson disregarded Jeff’s question, making clear this was his conversation to control.  An uncomfortable silence followed as Jeff calmly looked back and forth between the two men. 

Renovitch stepped past Ericson and extended his hand to Jeff, “My name is Anthony Renovitch.  I’m an attorney with the Economic Justice Collective.  We work with some of the local municipalities to ensure workers’ rights, proper working conditions, equitable wage, reasonable hours…….” he trailed off realizing Jeff had no interest in him.

“And who are you?” Jeff asked Ericson one more time.

“I’m the guy who makes sure this little geek gets what he needs.”

“Hey,” Renovitch turned back to Ericson in protest.  As he began, all three turned their attention to the black minivan that had just turned off McFarland and was heading their way.  The windshield bore a large red circle on the upper left windshield.  Below the circle “60N” was painted in thick black strokes.  They all watched silently as the minivan pulled into the space next to the red sedan. 

Henry’s head popped above the van as he shouted, “Hey, what are you doing over there.”  He paused and squinted at the group. “Oh Jesus, what the fuck are they doing here.”

An arrogant grin spread across Ericson’s face.  “Hey look Tony, my new favorite guy,” he bellowed so Henry could hear him across the street.

Both men began to approach each other to meet in the middle of the street.  Jeff and Renovitch followed.

“What do you want?” Henry shouted back as he walked briskly toward the brute.

“So you tried to skip town, huh?  Didn’t get too far I see.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I see you got branded and stuck back in the corral.”  Ericson kept up a brisk pace toward Henry.  “What are you running from?  Can’t run far ya know.”

“Jeff, what the hell is going on here?”  Henry shouted over the head of the approaching Ericson.  “What are you doing over there?”

The two men reached each other in the middle of the service road.  As Ericson stopped, Jeff walked past him to Henry’s side.  Henry turned to face Jeff, giving Ericson his left shoulder.  “I was checking out the lot, seeing if I could figure out who was snooping around.  Mystery solved I guess,” Jeff shrugged, tilting his head toward Ericson and Renovitch.

“I don’t snoop buddy.  I go where I want.” Ericson sneered back.

“Mr. McRoss, there was a vote scheduled for today,” Renovitch chimed in. 

“No,” Henry responded forcefully, “you had a vote schedule today.  I ignored you.  Now get the hell off my property.”

“Well sir, I think that’s one of the issues.”  Renovitch again pushed forward past Ericson.  He spoke with the cadence and disconnected nature of a college professor.  “When you venture to enrich yourself through the work of others, you necessarily open yourself up to public scrutiny, public oversight, and just the overall public interest in making sure corporations care for our most valuable and vulnerable resources,” he paused and smiled for dramatic effect, “people.” He paused again and raised one eyebrow, seeking acknowledgement from Henry McRoss. “When you open yourself up to use our resource, the public’s resource, can you really expect privacy?  Can you really expect to call this ‘your property’?  Isn’t this really the people’s property?”

Henry turned to Jeff “Get this asshole out of here.”  He turned his back on the pair and began to walk back toward his shop.

“Be part of the solution Mr. McRoss, or get run over.” Renovitch shouted at the retreating Henry McRoss.

Henry spun, his face red with anger.  “I am the God damned solution!”

Ericson began a brisk trot toward Henry, finger extended toward his target. “Listen here asshole, we’re taking this place whether you like it or not.  You’re a dinosaur.” As he reached Henry he jabbed his finger in his sternum.  “You’re done in this country, you’re done!” Henry instinctively shoved Ericson in the chest. 

As Jeff watched the aggressor reset and begin to come after Henry again, he noticed Ericson ball up his fist.  Jeff reached forward and grabbed Ericson’s left shoulder.  As Jeff began to spin Ericson toward him, Ericson raised his loosely fitted shirt and removed his .40 caliber subcompact.  Ericson swung the weapon wide to the right until it was about three inches from Jeff’s nose.  On instinct, Jeff slammed his right hand onto the side of the gun while his left simultaneously made contact with Ericson’s wrist.  Jeff quickly bent Ericson’s hand to a right angle pointing outward.  Ericson shrieked in pain, involuntarily opening his grip allowing the gun to dangle from his thumb.  Jeff pulled Ericson’s arm over his head causing the gun to be flung over his head onto the street.  Ericson’s left hand shot up in an attempt to render aid to the right.  When it reached Jeff’s arm Jeff pulled down hard on Ericson’s right thumb.  The left went limp in submission allowing Jeff to lock both of Ericson’s hands in a vice-like grip high over Ericson’s head.  Jeff extended his right leg behind Ericson and pushed.  Ericson’s feet were flung out from underneath him and he was taken to the ground, his full weight impacting without resistance. 

Renovitch leaned forward to help, but was quickly dissuaded when Henry took a step in his direction.

Jeff dropped his right knee onto Ericson’s chest, further depriving his lungs of air.  Ericson gasped for survival.  Jeff transferred the vice to his left hand, stretching Ericson out helplessly on the ground.  His right knee was inches from Ericson’s throat.  He patted down Ericson’s left side, then switched hands again and patted down his right.  As he switched sides he noticed the growing dark patch on Ericson’s pants.  “Ah, looks like you pissed yourself fat boy.”  Ericson was still gasping.  Finding his wallet Jeff removed it and threw it on the road surface next to his captive’s ear.  While pinning Ericson’s hands over his head with his left hand, Jeff riffled through the wallet with his right, pulling cards out and flinging them to the ground next to the wallet. 

“Joseph Ericson,” Jeff proclaimed, holding the driver’s license up to read.  “Michigan.  What are you doing down here Joseph Ericson?”  Jeff flung the license toward the other cards on the ground.  “You know Joseph,” he continued in a fatherly tone, “I’m not finding a permit in here.”  He tossed the wallet to the side and reached for his own wallet.  With his thumb he removed a white laminated card and held it to Ericson’s face.  “You need one of these,” he bent back the corner of the card and flicked Ericson on the nose, “to carry one of these.”  As Jeff replaced the card in his back pocket he retrieved the Kimber 1911 from the small of his back.  He pointed the gun in Ericson’s face and began to relieve the pressure from his chest.  He slowly lightened his grip on Ericson’s hands.  When he felt Ericson was suitably calm he began to stand, leaving the tough guy on his back in the middle of the road. 

The urine was beginning to wick outward across the front of his pants and down his legs.  The less Ericson feared for his safety, the more shame and anger started to set in on his face.

Jeff returned his weapon to the holster and walked to retrieve Ericson’s pistol from the road surface.  He casually leaned down and picked it up.  “Nice. An XD .40,”  he said while casually inspecting it.  “How much did you pay for this?” 

Ericson did not respond.  He lay defeated on his back.

“I got the M.  Very cool, but a little more money.” Jeff continued as if he were talking to a good friend.  Regardless of the situation, Jeff loved guns and he loved gun talk.  “I suppose if you don’t know how to use the damn thing it doesn’t make a difference if you get the XD or the XDM, huh?”  Jeff pushed in the magazine release and let the magazine fall into his left hand.  “Full metal jacket?  Really Joseph?  A hollow point gives you the take-down power, and they won’t easily go through walls.  More dangerous to the target and less dangerous for everyone else.”  He placed the magazine in his pocket and pulled back the slide slowly.  Nothing came out.  “Are you kidding me Joseph?  You didn’t even have a round in the chamber.  What were you gonna do, hit me with it?”  He tucked the pistol under his arm and removed the magazine from his pocket. 

Ericson moved into a seated position with his back toward Jeff.  Renovitch looked at his compatriot with concern but remained silent.  Ericson would not make eye contact with him. 

As Jeff popped the shells out of the magazine one by one he continued, “Henry, this illustrates the importance of training.”  He shook his fist full of shells over his head.  “I’m all about the Second Amendment, but with rights come responsibilities.”  He shoved the shells into his pocket.  “Right Joseph?”

Ericson sat silently, returning the cards to his wallet.

“Ain’t that right Joseph?”

Henry stood silent, not knowing what to say or even when to jump into the conversation.

Jeff walked around to the front of Ericson and leaned down.  He held Ericson’s gun by the barrel, extending the grip to the defeated man.  “Here you go.”  Ericson hesitated.  “Come on, it’s not mine.  I’m not thief.  It’s safe now,” he encouraged Ericson to take the gun.  As he reached forward to retrieve his gun Jeff continued.  “I’m really sorry I called you fat boy.  Uncalled for.”

Ericson nodded slowly, still refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

“Sorry about the pants too.”  Jeff continued.  “It’s the shock of hitting the ground.  That happens sometime.”  He looked up Henry with a big smile.  “Happened to me in training.  Hard to live down until it happens to the next guy.”  He returned his smile to Ericson.  “Yeah, guy number two doesn’t get as much shit about it.”  Jeff stood up in front of Ericson and extended his hand to help him up.  “Lucky for me I was the next guy.”  Ericson ignored Jeff and continued to organize his wallet.  Jeff shrugged and turned toward Renovitch.  “We’re not voting.”

Renovitch nodded slowly, remaining silent.

“We’re never voting.”  Jeff continued in a quiet, measured tone.  “The guys voted last night and we won.  This is our business.  We work for ourselves.  Our people work for themselves.  We will not be bullied.”

Renovitch continued nodding, nervously straightening the already straightened papers in his arms.

“Henry?”  Jeff deferred to his brother-in-law.

Henry paused briefly and attempted to shake himself back to reality.  His vacant look of amazement began to fade, and visible anger started to return.  “I want you two to get….” His voice increasing in volume as he continued.  Jeff held a hand up to Henry indicating that the battle was over.  It was now time set terms and walk away.  “Ah yeah, I mean,” he stumbled to find the proper attitude, “we’re done with this.  Everyone walks away.  The lift, the beat-down,” he instinctively raised his hand to his swollen face.  “all done.  I’ll run the lift through my insurance.  Let’s just leave it and walk away.”

Jeff turned his back on Ericson and started to walk slowly toward the shop.  Henry followed.  Ericson stood, briefly brushed himself off and began to walk several yards behind. 

Renovitch quickly fell in line.  “Don’t get in the car yet, let me see if there’s a blanket in back you can sit on.”  Jeff suppressed a chuckle.

“It’s a fucking rental,” Ericson murmured in response.

“I don’t know what the insurance covers.”

“Shut up Tony.”

Renovitch sprinted ahead, popped the trunk and began frantically looking.  Ericson went straight for the passenger-side door, opened it and sat down.  “Let’s go,” he bellowed. 

Renovitch poked his head out from the trunk lid and shrugged. “Gross,” he whispered to himself.  He dropped his papers in the truck, slammed the lid and walked to the driver’s side.  Once in the two sat silently, watching Jeff and Henry enter the front door of the shop.  “Well?” Renovitch queried.

“Dead.” Ericson muttered in a low growl.

“Huh?”

“Dead,” he repeated with more malevolence.  “Both of those guys are gonna be dead.”

“Well that’s pleasant.” Renovitch chirped.  “Glad they sent me such a rational guy to help reorganize the world.”

“Those guys are mine.”

“Yeah, yeah, gotcha,” the lawyer dismissed the machismo.  “You do realize the point is to pick off the big companies individually?  This guy is too small.”

“This guy is dead Tony.”

“There are other ways to take care of him.  After the big ones go down the small ones won’t survive.  Just relax.  In time he’ll go down.”

“There are other ways,” Ericson continued, “but we’re not waiting.  I don’t need your help.  We tried your law crap.  Now we go the easy way.”

“Whatever,” Renovitch started the car.  “This isn’t my district.  You’re welcome to it.”

West of Cumming, just off State 20 near a large Baptist church, a subdivision had been cut into the rolling wooded hills of Cherokee County.  The northern portion of the neighborhood was growing fast.  The southern portion, only in predevelopment, consisted of dirt roads and clay lots defined by dirty stakes adorned with pink plastic streamers.  These lots held various quantities of construction waste dump by the builders from the completed lots on the other half of the neighborhood.  The two sections were separated by a thick Georgia pine stand. 

Further to the west lay a large farm whose main house and out buildings were located off Chamblee Gap Road.  The farm’s large fields were irregular in shape, surrounded by more thick pine stands, and accessed by paths cut between each.  This was the farm owned by Karl Molving, grandfather of Marcus Tanner’s best friend from 4^th grade, Tom Molving.  Marcus had spent many afternoons riding dirt bikes along the paths skirting the cash crops.  Just a couple years prior the farm had extended into the present subdivision.  Eventually the price was so good even Grandpa Molving couldn’t turn down the offer.  He sold off 40 acres, farming the remainder until the market was ready to consume that too.

Marcus had parked his car at the western end of the cul-de-sac and walked through the path cut into the trees.  He had the child’s back pack slung over his left shoulder.  Despite his confidence in the location, he remained self-conscience of the princess pink.

Emerging from the path into the eastern most of Molving’s remaining wheat fields; he found a dry patch with matted grass.  He laid the backpack down and began to fish out its contents.  He placed the gun at a neat right angle to the trees, two magazines lined up under the barrel, then the box of ammunition.  He pondered the objects in front of him and began to make his plan.  He needed to be a self-taught expert by night fall.  If not an expert, he thought to himself, at least competent and not afraid of the weapon. 

He removed his smartphone from his front jeans pocket and opened the YouTube app.  He hoped to find some online instruction to help guide him.  In the past he’d used YouTube to learn a few yo-yo tricks, some skateboarding moves, and even how to wire a line of firecrackers to the starter of someone’s car.  Why not the proper use of a handgun?  He entered his search terms “how to load a gun” and waited patiently.  The “working” indicator at the top of the screen continued to turn, with no apparent result.  The internet had been down since the power outage.  It appeared that it had not yet returned.  Marcus slumped his shoulders in defeat and returned the phone to his pocket, resigned to the reality that he was on his own in this endeavor.

He looked over the new acquisition one more time, sighed, and lowered himself to his knees.  He grabbed the gun by its grip, keeping the barreled pointed in the general direction of the tree line.  He turned it back and forth, inspecting both sides and the top.  The gun was black.  The left side bore large letters etched into steel that spelled out “KAHR”.  Below that in smaller letters was scrolled “Kahr Arms, Worcester, MA.”  CM9 was etched into slide near the end of the barrel.  He bobbed his right hand up and down, getting a feel for the weapon.  Its weight felt nice in his hand.  He smiled; he felt empowered.

He set the gun back down and picked up both magazines.  One had a plastic, vaguely triangular piece attached to the base.  He wasn’t sure of its purpose.  He pushed his thumb into the magazine depressing the plastic inside, releasing it and letting it push his thumb back out.   He set the one without the plastic triangle back on the ground and grabbed the gun.  He pushed the magazine in through the grip. It stopped halfway in, leaving the triangle pointing inelegantly to the back of the gun.  He decided not to force it, paused, inspected the weapon, then smiled slightly as he recognized the problem.  He removed the magazine, flipped it over so the triangle faced forward and pushed it back in.  It slid easily this time, showing slight resistance near the end.  Marcus applied a little more pressure and the magazine clicked into place.  He again gripped the gun tightly, extended his right arm in front of him and looked down the sights.  His pinky was supported by the little plastic triangle at the base of the magazine.  The rear of the grip ended midway down his palm. 

He brought the gun back down and held it sideways in his open palm.  With his left hand he gave a tug to the magazine.  It wouldn’t budge.  He inspected the gun, ultimately noting a spring loaded button south of the trigger.  He pushed that and the magazine sprang from the grip. 

He next inserted the shorter magazine and “retested”, pointing the gun out in front of him, looking down the sights at the imagined bad guy.  He decided he liked the extra length on the grip, discarding the shorter magazine in the backpack.

Next he tugged on the slide like he had seen in movies.  The spring action was firmer than he anticipated.  It took some effort to draw it back fully.  As he let it slide gently forward he caught the fleshy part below his thumb in the gap between the slide and the barrel.  The instant he felt the pain his left hand reflexively let the slide go, tightening the guns hold on his palm.  He squealed slightly as his eyes widened from the pain.  He couldn’t get a decent grip on the slide, so he resorted to brute strength in removing his flesh from the trap.  Once release he dropped the gun and shook his hand furiously in pain and frustration.  “Don’t do that again,” he admonished himself. 

His hand still smarting, he looked the gun over one more time, noticing the serration at the rear of the slide.  Clutching that portion between his thumb and base of his index finger, he drew back the slide and let it return without injury.  He had learned his lesson.

He next returned the empty magazine to the grip and pulled back on the slide.  This time the slide stayed open.  He fidgeted with the gun until he found the slide release lever on the left side.  Pushing hard on the lever, the slide banged forward into position.  The force of the slide nearly spun the gun out of his hand.  He made a mental note, magazine in, slide locks open, magazine out slide moves freely.  He pulled the slide back to lock several more times, looked down the barrel and activated the release.  The gun slammed forward.  He felt like he was playing a part in an action movie. 

Once that fantasy was satisfied, he removed the magazine and lay both the gun and the magazine in front of him, the magazine lined up below the grip as if it were about to be pushed into place.  He did this so he could visualize which direction the bullets should face.  Once he figured that out he removed the box of ammo, 50 rounds of 9mm.  The brass glinted in the sunlight.  He shook the rack; it clicked in unison like a tray full of ball bearings. 

He maneuvered the magazine into place and forced the first round butt-first against the pressure of the spring-loaded plastic stop.  Once in place he forced the next on top, and then the next until he had forced 8 rounds on top of each other.  The spring would give no more. 

He carefully returned the magazine to the gun.  He surveyed the empty field, and considered his surroundings.  He scanned about 20 feet in front of him to a dirt clod laying at the edge of the plow-line.  He raised the gun, looked down the sights, braced himself for the kick and slowly pulled the trigger back.  A rush of excitement flowed through Marcus’ and his blood ran cold.  He was rewarded with a slight click.  Nonetheless, he blinked hard, imagining a more violent response.

Confused, he pulled the trigger again, but it wouldn’t move, locked tightly back.  He gripped the slide and drew it back.  Looking into the chamber he saw the round drawn upward, and easily slid into the barrel. 

Understanding now, he pointed the barrel at the clod of dirt and pulled steadily on the trigger.  The explosion of the 9mm round cut through the air.  His ears rung, but the thrill of the kick and burst of dirt several yards in front of him sent a wild energy coursing through him.  He scanned the horizon quickly, then located another benign target in the field.  Quickly he squeezed off another two rounds.  Counting in his head, he located another dirt clod and sent the last 5 rounds into the ground.  The slide locked open as he kept wrenching on the locked trigger. 

Recognizing that the fun had ended, he drew the gun down.  A foolish grin crept across his face.  He was tempted to reload and have another go, but thought better of it.  The report of 9mm rounds might have been lost in the hillside and trees, but if not, the rapid succession of each could not be mistaken for a backfiring car.  He thought it would be best to pack up and make himself scarce. 

He removed the magazine and tossed it in the bag along with the gun.  He closed up the box of ammunition, a row and a half shy of a full box, and threw that in with the rest of his goodies.  He looked forward to the day things got back to normal.  He just identified a new hobby and he wanted to do it somewhere he didn’t have to worry.

Marcus slung the backpack over his right shoulder and slid back through the opening in the trees.  He would no longer be a helpless bystander.  He was an armed protector.