Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

Four police cars, two of which had been parked near the bank on standby alert for the anticipated robbery, were now gathered at the site of the traffic accident, where the officers were busy keeping traffic away from the burning vehicles. At the sound of gunfire, seeing they had no ability to move their patrol cars through the intersection, the four officers drew their weapons and began running toward the bank.

The escaping van bounced off several cars in the driver’s frantic attempt to clear traffic and make his way to El Camino Real and the freeway entrance. Before the officers could reach the scene, the careening vehicle had negotiated the congestion and disappeared onto the freeway, the hostage still inside.

As soon as the gunmen cleared the front door, FBI Agent Nicole Bentley, who had been posing as a teller for two days, ran the length of the main counter toward where she had last seen her partner, Al Samuels. Using her arm as a fulcrum, she leaped over the locked, waist-high swinging door beside the main counter and ran toward the front door.

“Al, c’mon, if they get into the crowd, we’ll never catch them,” she shouted, glancing to where her partner had last been. Then she saw him on the floor, slumped awkwardly against the base of the customer counter, bleeding profusely from a wound in the side of his neck. She halted her pursuit and ran to him, sidestepping several customers who were trying to regain their feet now that the shooters had departed. She knelt down next to her partner.

His eyes were already beginning to glaze over. He tried to speak but could make no sound.

“It’s all right, Al, I’ll get help. Hang on,” Nicole said.

She grabbed her radio and called for paramedics, instinctively knowing it was too late. Samuels slumped lower against the counter, and Nicole sat on the floor beside him, lifting his upper body and cradling him in her lap. She tried to apply pressure to his neck, but the pulsing of blood was already beginning to slow. Helpless to prevent his slipping away, Nicole held Al Samuels, her tears blurring the vision of her partner, as he bled to death in her arms.

She sat that way for several long moments as customers held each other and gaped, traumatized by the violence that had erupted around them. Finally, two more FBI agents entered the front door and approached Nicole where she sat on the floor, leaning against the counter, cradling her dead partner. They were quickly followed by two paramedics who had originally been called to the traffic accident at the corner intersection. Nicole looked up at the men, her eyes blank, her mind uncomprehending. The senior FBI agent squatted down next to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, looking into her eyes.

“Maybe we should take him now, Nicole,” he said softly.

She pulled Al closer.

The kneeling agent turned his head and nodded toward the paramedics, who moved forward. Again, Nicole tightened her grip on Al Samuels’ body.

“It’s all right, Nicole,” he said, reaching for Al’s weapon, still clutched in the dead agent’s hand. “We’ll take care of him.”

Nicole stared down at the lifeless body of the man she had worked with daily for slightly over a year. Tears streaming down her face, she spoke in barely a whisper. “How many times have I told you, Al-that tie doesn’t go with that shirt. Oh, Al,” she said, shaking her head and sobbing, “why you, Al? Why you?”

Once clear of the Natomas area and the emergency vehicles racing down El Camino toward the multiple fires and gunshots, Krueger directed the driver of the van to turn north on Fulton Avenue and enter the Haggin Oaks Golf Course parking lot, where they stopped next to a Ford Expedition parked in a far corner of the lot. Krueger directed the driver and his remaining companion to exit the van and get into the Ford. He then climbed into the rear of the van with the hostage. He sat on the wheel-well next to the terrified woman, who lay on her back on the floor of the van, her head covered with an oily rag. Otto removed the rag, and the woman turned her head slightly, blinking her eyes and glancing up at her captor.

“I’ve got two choices, lady,” he said, brandishing his pistol near her face. “I can kill you, like those people in the bank, or I can leave you here.”

Trying to speak through her sobbing, the woman pleaded, “Oh, please, please , don’t kill me. I’ve got two children.”

“Now hear me good, lady. I’ve got your purse, with your driver’s license, and I’ve got your home address. Don’t forget that. I know where you live. I’ve also got your cell phone. One of my men is gonna be sitting in a parked car close by for the next several hours. I suggest you sit here calmly and wait for dark before you try to find help. If you make one sound, just one noise that he can hear, he’ll get back in the van and bring you to us. And you’re not gonna like what we do to you. Do you understand? Do I make myself clear?”

She nodded slowly, the tears running down her cheeks.

He continued to stare at her, then lowered his hand and ran it slowly over her face, down past her throat, pausing as he reached her breast. She whimpered and her body shuddered. “Just remember-we can come to your home if we need to, cops or no cops. They won’t watch you forever, and when they’re gone, we’ll come. It will take a long time for us to finish with you, but it’ll end with a bullet in your pretty little face. You tell the cops nothing -you could see nothing. We wrapped a cloth around your head and you were unable to see. You understand me?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice choking.

He gathered up her purse and the large oily rag that had covered her face and exited the van, locking all the doors. Then he entered the Ford Expedition, which was already occupied by the other two men. They started the engine and drove away, making for the freeway entrance to I-80 and driving west, taking the on-ramp at the I-5 North intersection.

“They killed Ralph,” the young bandit said from the backseat of the Ford after they had driven for several miles.

“They knew we were coming,” Krueger replied.

“How could they, First Sergeant?” the younger man asked as they sped past the airport and then over the bridge where they had previously hanged Lieutenant McFarland.

“Because we’ve still got a spy in the brigade. But that won’t be for long. And when I get my hands on him. .”

Krueger remained quiet the remainder of the trip north until they took the cut-off just beyond the city of Corning and headed east, up into the mountains.

The evening news ran footage of the robbery and hostage situation, including shots of the victims being taken out by stretcher, one hostage shot and killed and another injured, and one of the robbers also killed. Agents had directed the paramedics to take the body of Al Samuels quietly out another entrance, and no film was available of his remains. However, the report of an FBI agent killed in the line of duty was front-line news.

Later on The O’Reilly Factor, Senator Malcolm Turner took the opportunity to point out that this was a tragic story of yet another American citizen, driven to the brink of desperation by oppressive federal government involvement.

“Excuse me, Senator,” the host, Bill O’Reilly said, “but I don’t see how a bank robber-a killer, in this case-can blame the federal government for his actions.”

“Bill,” Turner postured to O’Reilly, “have you read the recent history of this unfortunate young man’s life? Here’s the case of a young American. .” Turner paused momentarily. “Perhaps, Bill, I should say a young Californian -a husband, father, and dedicated son, by all accounts-who sought only to right what he saw as the wrong being perpetrated on his mother by the unfeeling and federally controlled Internal Revenue Service.