subsequent inability to support his wife and children, all took a huge toll on Bernard’s health. One week after losing his tax case, Bernard had a massive coronary and died on a pier while fishing.
14
Jefferson waved his men into position. What Len presumed to be Squad A shuffled off quietly to do whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. The rest just sat there among the file boxes, waiting. Len’s legs were shaking; he felt sweat dripping down his back as he sat there making nervous eye contact with the other men. One of them winked at him.
There was an abrupt, building-shaking, thunking sound of enormous HVAC units shutting down as the power was cut. Then a yell from somewhere: “Let’s go!”
The men pulled down their balaclavas and ran behind Jefferson up two flights of stairs. Len did the same, wheezing from the exertion and years of smoking. As they reached the ground floor, about half of them peeled off to guard the exits. Len and some others kept following Jefferson to the top floor. Jefferson burst through a stairwell door into a lobby and, in a nightmarish explosion of violence, started shooting everyone and anyone he saw. Receptionists, clerks, it didn’t matter. Jefferson didn’t give a fuck. His men ran helter-skelter into the hallways and through the cubicle farms doing the same.
The muzzle flash of the guns lit up the room. Len watched a man’s head come apart as Jefferson fired a round into his face. Too shocked by the savagery to even be revolted, his mind had trouble believing what it was seeing. Len just stood there in the pandemonium in dazed disbelief.
Chaos. Pure, animal chaos. Even in Iraq, Len had never seen anything like this.
Brass ejecting, screaming, blood, running, papers flying everywhere, more screaming. A number of people ran for the exits. Jefferson and his men didn’t even try to stop them. They were allowed to escape because at the bottom of each stairwell was Squad B, waiting for them.
“This way!” Jefferson yelled, running down a hall.
Not knowing what else to do, Len followed. On the way down the hall, he happened to pass by a window. He stopped, transfixed by what he saw. The IRS building was right next to the river that they’d gone under. A Russian MI-24 helicopter hovered above the river outside the building. Sticking out of its side were two miniguns spewing flames, hosing the National Guard below with bullets. No one was flying the helicopter. There was no pilot or crew.
“Hey, snap out of it!” Jefferson rebuked. “Move!”
Len followed him to a corner office door, which was locked. Jefferson kicked it in and entered. Len didn’t see anyone. Jefferson walked behind the large oak desk and threw the chair out of the way. There, cowering under the desk, was a pasty, balding little man with glasses and a paisley tie. Jefferson grabbed the man’s throat and yanked him to his feet. The man looked like he’d just soiled himself.
“Do you know this man?” Jefferson asked Len.
He did indeed know him. The man’s name was Edward Burkholder, and he was the IRS agent who audited Len’s father nearly a quarter-century earlier.
15
Len often thought that people living in the developed world did not understand the holocaust of survival, the true nastiness it took to endure in an uncaring universe. He and everyone else were sheltered and naïve, like children. They bought meat from the grocery store having never seen the inside of a slaughterhouse. They went to their shores in the summertime, never thinking of the blood that had been spilled defending them. They went through life with televisions on and music at full blast, compulsively drowning out every possible silence. Len believed that silence was something most everyone avoided because when it was quiet, people came face-to-face with their Dark Thoughts.
After some time in Iraq, Len found out why veterans returning from combat didn’t like to talk about their experiences. Sometimes it was
14
Jefferson waved his men into position. What Len presumed to be Squad A shuffled off quietly to do whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. The rest just sat there among the file boxes, waiting. Len’s legs were shaking; he felt sweat dripping down his back as he sat there making nervous eye contact with the other men. One of them winked at him.
There was an abrupt, building-shaking, thunking sound of enormous HVAC units shutting down as the power was cut. Then a yell from somewhere: “Let’s go!”
The men pulled down their balaclavas and ran behind Jefferson up two flights of stairs. Len did the same, wheezing from the exertion and years of smoking. As they reached the ground floor, about half of them peeled off to guard the exits. Len and some others kept following Jefferson to the top floor. Jefferson burst through a stairwell door into a lobby and, in a nightmarish explosion of violence, started shooting everyone and anyone he saw. Receptionists, clerks, it didn’t matter. Jefferson didn’t give a fuck. His men ran helter-skelter into the hallways and through the cubicle farms doing the same.
The muzzle flash of the guns lit up the room. Len watched a man’s head come apart as Jefferson fired a round into his face. Too shocked by the savagery to even be revolted, his mind had trouble believing what it was seeing. Len just stood there in the pandemonium in dazed disbelief.
Chaos. Pure, animal chaos. Even in Iraq, Len had never seen anything like this.
Brass ejecting, screaming, blood, running, papers flying everywhere, more screaming. A number of people ran for the exits. Jefferson and his men didn’t even try to stop them. They were allowed to escape because at the bottom of each stairwell was Squad B, waiting for them.
“This way!” Jefferson yelled, running down a hall.
Not knowing what else to do, Len followed. On the way down the hall, he happened to pass by a window. He stopped, transfixed by what he saw. The IRS building was right next to the river that they’d gone under. A Russian MI-24 helicopter hovered above the river outside the building. Sticking out of its side were two miniguns spewing flames, hosing the National Guard below with bullets. No one was flying the helicopter. There was no pilot or crew.
“Hey, snap out of it!” Jefferson rebuked. “Move!”
Len followed him to a corner office door, which was locked. Jefferson kicked it in and entered. Len didn’t see anyone. Jefferson walked behind the large oak desk and threw the chair out of the way. There, cowering under the desk, was a pasty, balding little man with glasses and a paisley tie. Jefferson grabbed the man’s throat and yanked him to his feet. The man looked like he’d just soiled himself.
“Do you know this man?” Jefferson asked Len.
He did indeed know him. The man’s name was Edward Burkholder, and he was the IRS agent who audited Len’s father nearly a quarter-century earlier.
15
Len often thought that people living in the developed world did not understand the holocaust of survival, the true nastiness it took to endure in an uncaring universe. He and everyone else were sheltered and naïve, like children. They bought meat from the grocery store having never seen the inside of a slaughterhouse. They went to their shores in the summertime, never thinking of the blood that had been spilled defending them. They went through life with televisions on and music at full blast, compulsively drowning out every possible silence. Len believed that silence was something most everyone avoided because when it was quiet, people came face-to-face with their Dark Thoughts.
After some time in Iraq, Len found out why veterans returning from combat didn’t like to talk about their experiences. Sometimes it was
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