“But where are my manners?” Grant said humbly. “Before I introduce the Team I’d like to introduce my wife, Lisa. She’s an emergency room doctor.”
Gasp! An audible gasp from the crowd. Then they started clapping.
“Lisa has graciously agreed to help all of us,” Grant said. “Rich will be talking later about the nurses and EMT we have out here. ” Grant loved to be the one to introduce the security force and doctor to all these people. That would make quite a first impression.
After the hoopla died down, Grant pointed to the Team, who were standing up by the podium with him. “These guys are civilians who have been training for about two years on the weekends with me,” Grant said. “To be absolutely clear, we’re not some militia or anything weird like that. If we were, Rich wouldn’t let us near here.” Rich nodded. That was a critical point to make, and it was 100% true.
Grant continued, “We started out shooting for fun, but then we got better and better. We have been training at the Olympia law enforcement range and are actually pretty good. We are just natural sheepdogs.” Grant explained that term and told the audience that each of the Team used to have normal white-collar jobs. He had to get the audience to understand something that might be unbelievable to some of them: there was actually a bunch of guys who wanted to help people and trained with guns to do it.
“We decided,” Grant continued, “to become an informal…well, I guess you’d call it a SWAT team. We spent the day auditioning for Rich, Dan, and Ryan and we passed their test. We are at your service.” The crowd liked that and a few clapped.
“Rich and others will be overseeing us,” Grant said. “We will treat everyone well—except people trying to steal and hurt you. Some of you have met the guys, and I encourage those of you who haven’t to say hi to them after the meeting. We’ll be staying to answer any questions you have.”
Grant realized he hadn’t actually told people the guys’ names, so he introduced them, starting with Pow. Last was Chip. “Chip will be assisting us, but he thinks he’s a little old to be knocking down doors and shooting druggies.”
Some people laughed. Some didn’t. Grant realized that the “shooting druggies” thing was probably a little too much reality for some of them.
Rich said, “I want to emphasize that these guys are under my command. In the unlikely event there is a problem with them or anyone else, you can talk to me or Ryan or Dan. We encourage it, but don’t think it will be necessary. Any questions?”
A yuppie looking guy raised his hand. He was obviously a “cabin person.”
“Why do we need armed men out here? I mean, they’re not police officers or anything. They have no real training. Why should we let them run around and,” he used his fingers to mockingly make air quotes, “‘enforce the law’?”
It was silent. Many others must have been thinking that same thing.
Rich motioned to Grant that he would answer it.
“A fair question,” Rich said. “The short answer is that there is no law right now. Stores are running out of food and everything else. What do you think is likely to happen?”
The yuppie looked annoyed that he had to even answer that question. “What I don’t think should happen is a little dictatorship out here with weekend commandos running around with guns telling us what to do. That’s what I think.”
This man is a threat. Fight him.
Grant heard that loud and clear. Polite and political Grant disappeared and fighting Grant appeared. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he went into verbal battle.
“Dial 911, sir,” Grant said with an edge to his voice. “Go ahead.” Grant looked for a cell phone. Dan handed him one.
Grant—in full kit and with an AR slung across his chest—walked right up to the yuppie and handed him the phone. He was purposefully getting very close to the guy to show he was not at all afraid of him. The yuppie flinched when Grant got close.
“Go ahead,” Grant said. “Dial. See what happens. I’m serious. Put it on speaker phone so we can all hear.” Grant paused as the yuppie stared at him, afraid to take the phone from his hand. Grant decided to soften the aggression. He had made his point and asserted his role here.
“Sir, you raise a valid point that I’m sure others are wondering,” Grant said. “I sincerely ask you to dial 911 and tell us what happens.” Grant waited a few seconds. The yuppie wouldn’t dial, so Grant dialed 911 and put it on speaker phone.
A busy signal filled the air. Then a recording said, “All circuits are busy. Please try your call later.”
After letting the recording play a few times, Grant hung up. “This, sir, is why we’re doing this. Do you think criminals are going to take some time off right now?” He let that sink in.
“No, sir,” Grant said, “they are having a field day. In Seattle, Olympia, and probably Frederickson. Soon, if it hasn’t happened already, some criminals right here in Pierce Point will be seeing if they can get free stuff or,” Grant pointed to the yuppie’s wife, “worse.”
“I don’t think fear mongering is appropriate,” the yuppie said. He was pissed, but in a passive-aggressive way.
“What do you, or did you do, for a living, sir?” Grant asked.
The yuppie paused. “I am an architect. Henderson and Snelling in Seattle.”
“That’s what I thought,” Grant said. Some people in the audience clapped at Grant’s zinger. “I’m happy for you, what was your name?”
“Thomas Snelling.”
“Mr. Snelling, I am happy for you,” Grant said. “Know why? You’ve never had to deal with criminals. Let me guess, the last time you were in a fight was…kindergarten?” Grant was enjoying this. Maybe too much.
Snelling was silent. He did not expect to have this happen. He thought he would just throw out some questions and win the argument. It had always worked in the past.
“Sir,” Grant said, “Unfortunately, I have been in fights before. I’ve had to fight bullies my whole life. I understand how bad people think and act because, again unfortunately, I’ve had to be around them. Not by choice. In my professional life I fight bullies, too.” Grant felt like his whole life story was gushing out.
“Professional life?” Snelling sneered. “What profession?” he expected an answer like “law enforcement” or some “lesser” profession than architecture.
“I was an attorney, Mr. Snelling,” Grant said. “A damned good one. You see, sir, I fought bullies for a living in the courtroom. I would much rather keep the ‘fighting’ to a courtroom where we fought with words. But guess what? There are no more courtrooms, but there damned sure are bullies. And guess what else? They have guns. And knives. And broken bottles. And they want to take what you have. They’re hungry. They want what you have.”
Snelling was silent. This wasn’t going like he expected.
“Let me ask you, Mr. Snelling,” Grant said, “what kind of architecture do you do?” Grant bet he knew the answer.
“Public works. I design government office buildings, mostly,” Snelling said with pride.
Grant knew it. Yet another person living off the taxpayer. Yet another person who had a vested interest in government taking from the people and giving that money to important people like him. Another Loyalist.
“What a surprise,” Grant said and then realized he was getting far too political for this meeting, which was supposed to be about security. He decided to reel in the politics and get back to the topic at hand.
“Mr. Snelling,” he said, “I hear your concerns. We have taken measures to make sure our security personnel are top notch and accountable. You may not know this, sir, but most people out here are very well armed. If my guys decided to run amok, as you seem to fear, then some ol’ deer hunters would take care of business. We know that and welcome it.” Grant let that sink in.