When the Guns Were Turned On Us

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Chapter 43

It was an old neighborhood of picturesque Victorian-style homes, many of which were well in excess of 150 years old. Chris Templeton and Marty Smith had parked their car a couple of blocks away. The two walked casually up Granada Street as if they had been living in the upscale neighborhood their entire lives. Tucked securely inside Templeton’s jacket was a stick of gelignite with a blasting cap embedded firmly into it. The particular house they were targeting was very stately with white siding, black shutters and had three floors. Templeton spotted the propane tank attached to the right side of the house.

The rebels approached with great caution. Smith could see the home’s occupants-two men and two women. Their inebriated shouts and laughter could be heard beyond the confines of the dwelling. Templeton took out the gelignite. He placed it on top of the propane tank. Templeton nodded. They walked out onto the sidewalk and continued walking briskly down Granada Street. As soon as they were within striking distance of the car, Templeton removed a detonator from his jacket pocket. He pressed a button. Seconds later…kaboom! The immediate area was rocked by a thunderous explosion followed by an electrifying fireball that shot up into the night sky.

Templeton and Smith watched as they saw the results of their handiwork.

“Anybody for roasted pig?” Templeton asked with a wicked grin.

“Trying to cut pork out of my life,” Smith replied. “We better get out of here quickly. Lo and behold, those jackbooted thugs will be interrogating everybody within a ten-kilometer radius of this place.


Frank Carragher slept peacefully. The career bureaucrat had been sleeping much better lately. His dreams were filled with memories of faraway places that he’d visited or longed to visit. All of a sudden, Carragher’s serene, subconscious imaginings were abruptly ended by the annoying buzzing of his cellular phone, which vibrated wildly on the night table beside his bed. Astounded as to why his phone was ringing this late into the evening, Carragher groggily reached over to get it.

“If this isn’t a matter of life or death…”

“Sir, my apologies.” Major Toombs was on the other end. “There’s been an explosion…on Granada Street in the West End.”

Carragher shot up.

“A bombing?” The district administrator was shocked.

“Certainly looks that way Sir. Four members of the NAP lived in that house. From the looks of things, none of them survived.”

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