Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“Check it out,” Mustafa directed, pointing to the adjoining bathroom. He went to the dresser and, with gloved hands, slid each drawer out carefully. Nothing. Next was the closet. It was to his right and was closed off by twin doors. He parted them and, holding the mini-flashlight in his teeth, lit up the space. What he was searching for was there, leaning in the corner like an old umbrella. “Brother Roger. I got it.”

Roger hurried to the closet and lifted the artificial limb, examining it in the light. “It’s close. It looks close.” The obvious difference between it and the one they had in the bag was the series of straps that wrapped the upper portion, connecting it to a semi-rigid knee brace that itself was topped by more straps to affix the limb securely to the thigh. It was a clunker, all right. Roger had seen better on some of the brothers back in L.A. But the added gear was not a problem. They had expected it, and simply transferred it to the prosthesis they had brought with them.

“There’s some marks by the ankle,” Mustafa pointed out. He held the leg now while Roger opened the small makeup kit they’d brought along. A few strokes of a non-oily foundation prepared the area of their leg, and a dab of an eyebrow pencil did the rest. This they repeated for every blemish that they could find, until the difference between the two limbs was almost nil. “How does it feel?”

Roger hefted it up and down a few times, comparing the weight and balance to the real one now tucked in the bag. “About the same.”

“Good,” Mustafa said. “He’ll never know the difference.” Until it’s too late. “Okay, put it back. Right where it was.”

Roger leaned the limb back in the corner, made sure nothing was disturbed, then closed the closet door. “We did it.”

“We did this ,” Mustafa said. He let the light fall from his mouth to his hand. “ It comes Friday.”

Roger agreed with a nod. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here now.”

“Nervous, Brother Roger?”

“Cautious, Brother Mustafa,” Roger countered. He saw that it didn’t convince his comrade. “Come on.”

Mustafa followed Roger down the stairs. They waited ten minutes at the front door, until it was just fifteen minutes shy of midnight. They then let themselves out, making sure the latch was set to lock when closed. Only the deadbolt remained unlocked, but that was of no concern. An oversight on the congressman’s part when leaving that evening. A state dinner, a dead friend. He had a lot on his mind. Such a minor slip was to be expected. A simple mistake. It wouldn’t have been his first.

It wasn’t a bad little place, Darian thought, but then they’d only be there a short time. Still, it did feel good to have everyone together. And the extra room this larger apartment in Arlington provided made it all the more comfortable.

But comfort was only incidental. They were there for a reason. There to prepare for the big night. There to take the last steps that would set things in motion.

“Whiteboy ain’t got his head screwed on straight if he thinks there won’t be cops there,” Mustafa said, his powerful fingers pressing the .45-caliber shells into the stack of magazines they’d acquired for the Ingrams. He wore no gloves this time. It didn’t matter if there were prints on the casings. Who would know, who would care? But if there was going to be a fight, they were going to breathe plenty of fire. No ammo worries on Friday.

“It’s supposed to be low-key,” Darian said. He was busying his hands with cleaning the Ingrams, as well as the half-dozen pistols and revolvers that lay on the bed between him and Moises. On the floor the “toy” Mustafa had brought with them from L.A., something he’d “acquired” from an associate in the Army some years before, lay on an open towel. It looked like a break-open shotgun on steroids. “And we’ll be shooting first.”

Mustafa stopped what he was doing and looked up. “There’s gonna be a fight.”

“Then a fight there’ll be,” Moises interjected confidently.

“Yeah,” Mustafa said with little faith. “Virgin boy here who ain’t done hardly more than pop some unarmed ratbeard is gonna take out Secret Service pigs.”

“Brother Moises will do fine,” Darian said with confidence.

Mustafa eyed their youngest comrade, then looked back to his leader. “Right.”

“Trust me, Brothers. We’re gonna do this.” He laid the Ingram he’d been cleaning on the bed and took the two .357 revolvers in hand. “Brother Moises, load these. We’ve got work to do tonight.”

The door from the living room opened. Roger took half a step into the room, his eyes on his leader. “Brother Darian.”

“What?” The NALF leader didn’t bother looking up.

“I need to talk to you.”

Now his eyes came up. “Talk.”

“In here.”

Both Moises and Mustafa sensed the strangeness in that request as they looked to their comrade.

“It’s important,” Roger said. He backstepped into the living room, beckoning his leader.

Darian stood and went to Roger, the door closing behind. “What is it? This isn’t good, talking like this. What’s with you? What are they supposed to think, Brother Roger? Huh?”

Roger backed farther away from the door to the couch. “I saw something.”

“Saw? Saw what?” Darian demanded impatiently. An Ingram, its suppressor affixed, lay on a piece of furniture. “You are supposed to have that weapon in your hands, watching that door, making sure that no one gets the drop on us. Is that what you were doing coming in there and saying you had something important to say?”

Roger bent down and reached between the cushions near the Ingram. A folded newspaper came out in his hand.

“What is that?”

Roger held it out to Darian. “The paper. The one you got the classifieds from. Remember?”

An old paper? What… “What are you doing with it?”

“I looked at the front page that day,” Roger admitted. “There was a story about what we did in L.A. I just wanted to take a look at it, to see what—”

“Propaganda,” Darian said. “You know better than to read that shit.”

“Not this, Brother Darian,” Roger countered. “This was talking about something different. Look at it.”

Darian unfolded the paper and immediately saw the small headline that had to have captured his comrade’s attention: WHITE SUPREMACIST WAS SUSPECT IN WORLD CENTER ATTACK. Below that was a picture of John Barrish…and of his wife and two sons. One of those looked amazingly like the white boy with the funky eye that they’d been meeting with.

“That’s him,” Roger said.

Darian looked up from the story.

“That Barrish guy is the one who got off for killing those girls at the church on Crenshaw!” Roger said in a suppressed shout. “Brother Moises’ little sister was one of them!”

“You had this all the time?”

Roger nodded. “I didn’t want to, you know… That thing sounds like we were working for him.”

Darian read some more, then crumpled the paper into a ball. “It says he wasn’t a suspect anymore.”

“Brother, his kid was the cracker we were meeting with!”

Roger always had been the most timid of the NALF’s small number. Now he was more than that. “Have you shown this to the others?”

“No. I didn’t want to believe it myself. But…” Roger looked to the carpet, then to his leader again. “I can’t do this no more. It’s been eating at me. These guys aren’t no tax protesters. They’re killers, man, and they’ve killed our people. Do you think Brother Moises would be doing this if he knew who the crackers we’ve been dealing with are?”