Piggies,

I'm trying something different this week. Below is a section of a 5-part series of fiction I've put together. I'll be releasing a section every day this week, since the whole story is over 5K words and a lot to read while sitting on the toilet (gotta keep the blood flow to the legs, na'mean?).

This is a work of fiction, names, etc, are all made up. But the theme is very real. Based on an incident that happened in California last week, where a man was arrested and charged with attempting to assassinate Donald Trump, simply because he had weapons in his car as he was driving by a rally. The driver, a Trump supporter, was a mile from the venue and claims the weapons (a shotgun, a pistol and one AR-style magazine) were for his own personal protection since he's had several death threats issued against him. The DoJ is not pressing any charges, but the local sheriff (a staunch Trump supporter) is. Not to sound alarmist, but this is a blueprint for how law enforcement will be weaponized to seize firearms from law abiding citizens. Simply paint a narrative that they're "terrorists" and there you go.

As I write this, Trump is holding a rally exactly .5 miles away from my new home, in downtown Lancaster, PA. Mrs. Pipehawk and I are hunkering down, knowing the already traffic-jammed neighborhood will likely be complete chaos as the day goes on. I'm real on the fence about walking down there and people watching, honestly, but this clam chowdah isn't going to make itself.

ANYway, put your pink little snout into this cautionary work of fiction.

-Jim @ PHC

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Greg already had a plan. Tony wasn't sure if it was Greg who came up with it, or the rest of the ATG, but he wasn't in position to argue.

"You take breach," and Greg handed Porcaro a chopped-down auto shotgun. Tony set his jaw and took the weapon.

"Fine, if it gets me back into everyone's good graces," he said 'good graces' with an exaggerated emphasis that dripped in sarcasm. Greg gave him a wolf's smile.

"Breacher up, baby."

Everyone knew the breacher was the most dangerous position to be in on a dynamic entry, which was also the most dangerous part of a raid. You had to stand right at the doorway, potentially exposing yourself to hazards like boobytraps or shooters just on the other side of the door. While the number one man in the stack, the first to enter, had a tough job, at least he had the benefit of shock, surprise and speed on his side. The breacher was hung out to dry, Tony thought.

​

He walked to the blacked out MRAP idling in the parking lot. A few of the ATG officers standing by noticed the breaching shotgun now slung across Tony's plate carrier and grinned to each other. Porcaro didn't know how to take that.

The "ramp brief" went without any issues, no one asked questions. Captain Jenks identified Porcaro as the breacher on Team 4. Tony thought he heard a few mumbled comments but he couldn't be sure. They were going to hit three houses tonight. Major raids across the state were already starting.

They climbed aboard the MRAP, the mine-resistant, ambush-protected vehicle from the end of the GWOT, which thousands had entered the fleets of law enforcement agencies over the years. No one ever bothered to ask what landmines were being resisted or ambushes they were being protected from on America's streets, but as Tony had found out earlier that day, it wasn't a great idea to ask questions like that. He took his seat near the ramp door at the rear of the troop compartment, snapped his Peltor ComTac VIIs into place and hooked into the commlink system they were all using to hear over the loud hum of the truck.

Tony was plugged into the main team channel, but you could switch between channels to have somewhat private conversations with the officer next to you. Tony observed a few guys were doing just that. No one asked him to hop freqs.

The first house was in the lower-upper class neighborhood of Buchanan Hill. The driver of the blacked out MRAP went over the main channel and gave a time hack of 30 seconds to target. He switched the headlights to IR-only and everyone snapped down their PVS-31s into place.

"Ten seconds," the driver said as he made the final turn onto the target house street. This part always got Porcaro's blood pumping. He knew he'd be first down the ramp, to the front door. He had memorized the photos the undercover surveillance teams had taken yesterday. He knew there would be an inflatable lawn ornament just to his left as he exited. He knew there was a garden hose across the driveway he could potentially trip over. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew he had to be on-point; his fellow officers were watching him.

​

"RAMP DOWN, GO GO GO" the MRAP driver called into the comms. The ramp came down and Porcaro was out and running full sprint, M4 covering the front door. He dodged the inflatable and skipped over the garden hose. He took his position to the hinge-side of the door, looking back at the rest of team four as they made their way a few paces behind him.

He took a moment and observed the door. Normally when they did these raids, the doors were reinforced with a metal gate. They would have to wrap a heavy-duty chain to the metal and connect it to the MRAP and have the driver "pop" the gate off before breaching. This door looked like the door to his parent's place. A simple, wood-and-fiber glass exterior door with a deadbolt, security camera doorbell and latch.

Once the remainder of the team stacked opposite from him, covering the door and windows with their rifle muzzles, Tony switched to his breaching shotgun, still slung in front of him. He pressed the spiked muzzle device to the deadbolt and pressed in ensuring a solid grip. The first man in the stack smashed the doorbell camera with the butt of his rifle. The number two man gave the number one man a squeeze on his elbow, and the number one man nodded to Tony from under his NVGs.

That was the signal to breach. Porcaro thumbed off the safety, braced the shortened gun to his shoulder pocket, putting his weight into it, and squeezed the trigger. The 12 gauge breaching rounds are fairly useless against human threats, but made short work of the deadbolt and locking mechanism in the door.

The door swung in on the momentum of the blast. The number one man, with a 9-banger flashbang already prepped, tossed the explosive into the breach. Tony had let the shotgun hang while he prepped his own flashbang, and tossed his right after the first.

The flash and boom subsided and the stack swarmed into the house with ghostly silence. No announcing their presence here. Tony brought up the rear, watching the green lasers dazzle over the interior of the home.

"Dog, right!" Someone called out. There were two muffled gunshots followed by a yelp. People in the back were yelling. A woman screamed.

"Blue! Blue! Blue!" It was Team 3, who had breached from the rear. The two teams met in the middle of the house, between them, the homeowners whom Team 3 had dragged out of the rear bedroom.

"Lights," and the ATG teams lifted their NVGs from over their faces as to not be blinded by the interior lights being flipped on. Porcaro got his first look at the suspected ANTIFAs being shoved to their knees in their own living room, hands on heads.

​

The man was in his late 40s, or maybe early 50s. Skinny, head full of gray hair, only in his boxer shorts and a t shirt that said "Salt Lake's Number 1 Fisherman." His expression was pure shock. His wife, slightly heavy set, in a nightgown, her hair in a long loose braid down the middle of her back. She looked to be the same age as Angela Porcaro, Tony's mother.

"What the hell is going on here?? What is the meaning of this??" The man said from his knees. The Team 4 team leader stepped forward, took a knee in front of the homeowner and squeezed his neck. Tony knew the gloved hand on flesh had an unnerving effect on most people.

"You have the right to remain silent, you fucking piece of shit, shut the fuck up," and shoved him back. Another ATG member, from Team 4, got behind both the home owners, placing them both in heavy-duty flex cuffs.

They both knelt on the hardwood of the living room, the woman in obvious discomfort. She looked scared, the man looked angry, confused.

Behind the team, Agent McCleary entered, stepping over the remains of the family pet. He dug some paperwork from inside his windbreaker and tossed it down in front of the man.

"Kevin Delmonaco? You're under arrest for the attempted assassination of a family member of a federal official." The wife turned to her husband, eyes wide. She turned back to the fed, from her knees, eyes wider.

"What, how? That's impossible! He's a doctor! He's 55 years old? Assassinate??" Agent McCleary picked up the stapled packet of papers, Porcaro could see it was a warrant and attached affidavit and flipped a few pages in.

McCleary cleared his throat. "Mr. Delmonaco, are you, or are you not, in possession of an AR15-style rifle and 9mm handgun," the agent spoke in a bored monotone. The man, Mr. Delmonaco, had a blank expression on his face. He paused before speaking.

"I, I bought those guns in 2020, during the pandemic? I, I've never owned a gun before, I don't even think I have bullets for them, I..." Agent McCleary cut him off.

"Do you know the max effective distance for an AR15, Mr. Delmonaco?" The agent asked.

"No?"

"Twenty-eight hundred yards. Did you know that the son of a federal judge moved into your neighborhood, approximately," McCleary flipped a few pages to find the number, "2400 yards away? Just over those trees, on the other side of the water hazard on the golf course, there. You could have very easily took him out."

Delmonaco couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

​

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