Home Invasion - J. A. Johnstone [64]
It didn’t take long to drive from the outskirts of town where the school was located to the downtown area. Alex saw several of the black SUVs parked at intervals along the blocks of businesses. The soldiers had gotten out and were striding along the sidewalks, the highly visible presence of their weapons causing a lot of alarm and commotion among the citizens. They hadn’t gotten to the hardware store yet, she saw, and she was grateful for that. She might still have a chance to talk some sense into Wendell Post.
As she parked in a fire zone and got out of the car, she heard the bullhorn-magnified tones of one of the troopers saying, “Attention, citizens of Home! Attention, citizens of Home! As per the Executive Order of the President of the United States, Home and the surrounding area are now under federal control! You are required by law to cooperate and comply with this order! All firearms must be surrendered! Repeat, all firearms must be surrendered! Take your guns to the Federal Protective Service command post located at the Home High School and turn them in! FPS personnel are on duty there to collect your firearms and issue receipts for them! This is a temporary measure, but all firearms must be surrendered!”
Where was the news media now? Alex wondered fleetingly as she moved toward the door of the hardware store. Where were all those gallant reporters devoted to the pursuit of truth now? Why weren’t they showing the world pictures of how soldiers under the direct command of the President had invaded and occupied an American town? Where was the outrage at such a heavy-handed and unconstitutional action?
She knew the answer, of course. The FPS had probably thrown a cordon around the entire area placed under martial law. The media wouldn’t be allowed in while the disarming of Home was going on. And even if they had been, they would have downplayed and excused the whole thing, so it didn’t really matter.
Alex grabbed the handle on one of the glass front doors of the hardware store and pulled it open.
A shot blasted, shattering the glass and spraying shards of it over the sidewalk. Alex crouched, instinct making her draw her pistol as broken glass crunched under her feet.
“Wendell!” she shouted. “Wendell, it’s Chief Bonner! Don’t shoot!”
From where she was, she could see that the hardware store appeared to be empty of customers. That was good, anyway. This wouldn’t turn into a bloodbath.
Not unless the blood was hers, she thought.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted movement and turned her head to see several of the FPS troopers rushing toward the hardware store. She motioned with her free hand for them to stop. They slowed down but kept coming.
“Wendell, can you hear me?”
There hadn’t been any more shots. Now Post called from the back of the store somewhere, “Chief? Is that really you?”
“It’s really me, Wendell.” Alex took a deep breath. “I’m coming in.”
“Are there any of them government thugs with you?”
“No, just me.” She motioned again to the FPS men, more sharply this time. They stopped at the end of the block, and one of them gave her a curt nod. She took this as permission to go in and talk with the barricaded store owner.
“Well … all right, I guess,” Post called. “Come on in. Just you, though.”
“Just me,” Alex said, loud enough for the men at the end of the block to hear her. She motioned for them to stay where they were as she pulled back the undamaged door and stepped into the store.
“Back here behind the counter,” Post said.
Alex holstered her weapon. She didn’t believe Wendell Post would shoot her. They had known each other for years.
The rawboned sixty-year-old straightened from his crouch behind the old, scarred wooden counter where he had filled orders for his customers for decades. He had a deer rifle in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Chief,” he said. “I thought