America Rising by Tom Paine Page B

someone’s door in a deserted neighborhood at midnight? I wanted to tell her not to answer. That you never know who or what could be just beyond that thin wooden slab. But this was her neighborhood, her neighbors, the ones who stood with her in the snow, risking their lives to keep her and her daughter from being thrown into the street. She got up and went to the door. Threw the deadbolt. Reached for the chain lock—
     
    CRASH!
     
    The door exploded inward. The frame splintered. Julie staggered back and fell. Three bodies—two large, one small; two men, one woman—burst in. They were clad in black, wearing ski masks. Each held a small boxy pistol with a stub of a barrel. I’d seen guns like that on TV; they looked even deadlier in real life. I jumped up and got in the first man’s face. He slashed at me with his pistol, tore a channel through my cheek. Blood splashed on my collar. I staggered and pitched to the floor.
     
    The second man yanked Julie up, threw her on the couch, kicked me in the ribs, motioned towards her with his pistol. I crawled over and sat next to her, blood really flowing now. The small body, the woman, holstered her pistol. She reached beneath her nylon jacket, produced a tiny video camera and swept it across the room, then over Julie and me on the couch, the two men pointing guns at us.
     
    All of a sudden I got it.
     
    This was payback. Payback for that day in the blowing, swirling snow when a handful of men and women faced down an angry Dan Majerle and a squad of blue uniforms, when they stood in the path of wealth and power. This was the response. A warning. A lesson. The video would be posted to show with brutal clarity that anyone who stood up would quickly be knocked back down
     
    I tried to think it through, look for a way out. There wasn’t any. They had numbers, guns, surprise. We had nothing. Julie trembled beside me, the enormity of the outrage beginning to sink in.
     
    “Who are you people? Why are you doing this to us?” she sobbed, blinking away the tears.
     
    “Shut up, lady.”
     
    The man was the largest of the two. His voice was rich with arrogance and contempt. The woman trained her video camera on him as he loomed over Julie. “You think you can steal someone else’s property? Think your neighbors with their little popguns will protect you? You have no idea the people you fucked with. You’ve got five minutes to get your stuff and get the hell out of here.” He turned to the smaller man and barked, “Back bedroom. Get the kid.”
     
    “Don’t you touch her!”
     
    Julie Teichner flew off the couch like a madwoman, hands like claws grasping for the man’s throat. If she was forty pounds heavier with a fraction of his skills she would have torn out his windpipe. He swatted her back like a bug, wiggled his pistol at me. For the first time, the woman spoke. “For crissakes, we don’t have time for this. Let her get the damn kid.”
     
    The big man glared at her, thought the better of it. He switched his gaze to Julie and said, “Go.”
     
    Julie went. The second man followed. The bedroom door opened. Megan’s quiet sobs filtered into the living room. I could hear Julie murmuring to her. The sobs rose to hysterical. More murmuring. A gruff voice interrupting. The sobs rose, then fell. Drawers opened, closed. A suitcase unsnapped, then snapped back up again. More sobbing.
     
    The man standing over me sneered. “What are you, the boyfriend?” he said. His eyes lit on my reporter’s notebook on the table, then the camera and tripod. “So you’re some kind of snoop. You bonking the bitch?”
     
    “Fuck you.”
     
    He laughed. It was a harsh, grating sound. “Ooh, tough guy.” He tossed a box of tissues in my lap. “Clean yourself up, tough guy. You’re bleeding all over the furniture.”
     
    I took a wad and held it to my cheek. The wound stung and began to throb. I’d probably need stitches. Julie came out of the bedroom holding Megan’s