Problem:
The Gravy Incident at Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving had turned into one giant mess when Stella's mother, who was like Stella's most irritating personality traits cubed, had innocently enquired of Stella as to whether they were 'trying', and then, like she didn't know the score, turned to Ray and said, "Stanley, I'm sure your mother would love grandchildren, too."
Why Stella always had to line up with her parents to snipe at him, Ray didn't understand. Always the lawyer, she'd quickly staked out a defensive position by archly pointing out that Ray's mother didn't even bother to call him these days. Then she added the below-the-belt jab about Ray just wanting to prove he'd be a better father than his Dad. If Ray threw the gravy boat at the wall, it was a justifiable gravy-cide.
Now Christmas was approaching and Ray didn't want to spend it fighting. Stella deserved better than that. And besides, strategically speaking, providing a diversion at Christmas might save Ray from the topic of children being brought up where the mother-in-law could get in poisonous jabs. That was private, between him and Stella.
Solution:
A little blue velvet box for Stella to open on Christmas day at her folks'. Something bigger than the tiny chip that was all Ray had been able to afford when he proposed to Stella. He'd been saving for this. Ray was going to get a rock big enough to show all her lawyer friends and her smug mom and dad that Ray was as good as any of them.
It wasn't a watertight plan, but it covered a lot of contingencies. Then maybe, in the new year, he could sit Stella down and really make her see how much it would mean if they could start a family. How much he wanted to share that with her.
Today's mission:
A lunch time shopping trip to Chicago's Jewelers' Center. Get in, find something that said "My wife is the most beautiful woman in the world," get out. Quick. Simple. Foolproof.
Right.
The drive from the precinct to the mall had been pleasant enough. The snow was doing picture-book things, not yet succumbing to the accumulations of city grime. Ray drove with a grin on his face. He might have lived there all his life but there was still something about Chicago with a white Christmas coming that made him feel like the innocent boy he'd probably never been.
Ray crowed triumphantly when he scored street parking on Wabash. Things looked even better when he realized there was still a quarter in the meter. The art deco building that housed the panoply of jewelry stores Ray had to choose from was intimidating, sure, but Ray had a plan and a schedule and he wasn't going to let a little thing like a high-classed building full of all kinds of rocks put him off his game.
There were any number of stores inside the mall, most of which required an appointment to visit during weekday hours. Ray had another destination in mind. On the outside of the building there was a small, much more homely and humble jewelry store, a family operation that had been in business since the mall was established just after the turn of the century. Ray pushed the door open, setting an old-fashioned bell over it jingling, and found the only other customers were a young, nervous looking man, and a couple, the woman obviously pregnant. The young man was looking at the display of engagement rings, while the couple inspected silver rattles and christening cups. Ray put on his glasses, taking the ability to see the jewelry clearly over the trivial annoyance of looking nerdy. After all, he already felt quite out of place, what was the difference?
"May I help you, sir? Were you looking for anything in particular?"
The store's proprietor was an affable looking man of late middle age, wiry and balding with tufts of grey hair that poked out over his ears, making him look rather mad-professorish. His manner was soothing. Ray stepped forward, losing some of the awkwardness of finding himself out of his social milieu.
"Yeah. Uh. I was looking for a Christmas present. For my wife."
"I'm sure we can find the perfect little something." the store owner said with a smile and the hint of a wink.
The door to the shop slammed open with a bang and a dramatic jangling of the bell. All five occupants of the shop turned to see three men enter, pulling ski masks over their faces and carrying sawn-off shotguns. The last robber into the shop pulled the door closed and locked and flipped the open sign over.
Ray rolled his eyes. Definitely amateur hour. Because a "Sorry, We Are Closed" sign was a magical barrier against anyone outside noticing the presence of large, menacing, armed men in the store.
Ray's second reaction was to shift quickly to put himself between the armed robbers and the vulnerable civilians, particularly the pregnant woman and her terrified looking husband.
This was not the time for heroism. Co-operation was the best route until a SWAT team showed up. (That was assuming that the owner had pushed the silent alarm, and Ray figured he looked at least that smart, and given the general wealth of the area, a SWAT response would probably be near-instant just so no-one had to hear the Mayor complain later.) But until that rapid response arrived, Ray knew where he belonged, and that was in the line of fire.
"Don't move! Stop moving and get down on the floor!" the first robber to enter the store yelled. His voice was strong and commanding but not free from strain. He had an imposing physical presence to match the voice.
Ray put out his hands placatingly.
"Whatever you say, you're the boss here." he said. "But the lady shouldn't be on the floor in her state. Can we get her in a chair?"
The two men behind the robber who had spoken looked at each other then to the leader for an answer.
With a very slight nod of his head, the leader spoke again. "She sits. The rest of you, on the floor, now."
There was a chair in the corner, abutting a stretch of counter top that was covered in black felt. Ray assumed it was for customers to sit in if they were to spend a long time designing the perfect piece with the jeweler. The pregnant woman made her way over to it, shooting nervous glances at her husband who stood still with his hands raised. When she had sat, the leader of the robbers yelled, "Down on the floor, the rest of you. Don't move. Not a muscle. Don't make any noise. Just stay down. Do what you're told."
Only a minute had passed since the gunmen had burst into the store, but everything was moving in crystal clear slow motion for Ray. He got down to the floor as commanded, but made sure that he was still in a position where he had the clearest possible view of the robbers. Anything could go wrong, and he would act when and if it became necessary.
So much for a quick lunch time errand.
Adrenaline flooded through Ray as he lay on the floor watching the gunmen smash the glass cases in the shop and load jewelry into cloth bags. An absolutely miraculous system of chemistry and mechanics transformed his whole lean, muscular body into a poised monument of completely appropriate stress, a bowstring-taut force waiting to be released. It wasn't his usual jittery tension, but an elevated state of awareness and readiness, alert to every minute motion around him.
No-one was getting hurt. Bottom line. Any move toward violence from the robbers and Ray would put them down where they stood and deal with the inevitable mountain of paperwork and cross-examination from IA later.
The first sign of things going horribly wrong for the robbers was a siren. Ray's head snapped up though he kept the rest of his body still. Some idiot came in with lights and sirens blazing and now there was no way SWAT was putting this party to bed without trouble.
"What the- " one of the gunman who hadn't spoken yet started to swear, a long, creative string of curse words. His attention, and that of the other two robbers, was now firmly on the front of the store where a battalion of heavily armed and armored police were blocking the street.
"This is the Chicago Police Department. The building is surrounded. Come out slowly, one at a time, with your hands raised." A voice boomed over a megaphone.
The leader didn't waste his breath swearing.
"Well, I guess we all just got very unlucky." he said. "We are getting out of here, with what we came for, no matter how many of you have to die."
Ray was on his feet, action preceding thought. As he stood, he pulled his service weapon from the holster concealed at the small of his back. The robbers had their guns pointed at the other hostages and were slow to react to his sudden, fluid and graceful arc up off the floor. By the time they turned to face him, Ray was holding the gun out with one hand and his badge with the other.
"Chicago PD. Put the weapons down now. It's over, boys, you ain't getting out."
The leader stepped forward, his stubby shotgun aimed at Ray's chest. Ray looked unflinchingly at him.
"We will get out, whether we have to wade through blood to do it." the leader spoke. His commanding voice now rose, the cadence of a preacher, a fanatic, underlying it. "We came here to raise cash or raise hell and we'll do both. You heard of the Weather Underground? Well, the world's going to hear of us. It wasn't going to be today, but it's fine by me. You want to die first?"
Okay. New information. Ray quickly assimilated the fact that the leader of the gunmen was stark raving batshit mad. And had some kind of Messiah complex. That made things a whole new ball game.
Fight fire with fire.
"Yeah?" Ray said. "You think so? Here's what I think. Listen up. Any of you punks fires one shot and I will finish you where you stand. There's three of you and one of me, so any way you figure it, I end up dead. But I shoot good. Real good." He grinned, letting a fraction of the fury and tension he felt gleam through his eyes. "I bet none of you just re-qualified at a police firin' range, and I bet none of you'd get my scores anyway. So no matter who you think you're gonna shoot to make your point, one of you dies. I guarantee. I figure I can maybe even take two if I get real lucky or you think of targeting one of these other good people first."
Ray swung his gun around to point at each of the robbers in quick succession.
"You're probably thinkin' no-one's as crazy as I am. Any minute now I'll have the sense to put the gun down and let this play out. But you know what? All these people, they're just trying to go about their lives, take care of their families, do something nice, and you march in here like you got some kind of right to smash up someone's business and hurt innocent people, and I'm not stupid, but maybe I am just crazy enough that it is not going to happen."
Ray could see the two followers wavering in their conviction that everything was going to go according to the leader's plans. He could feel that his raw anger and his apparent total lack of self-preservation instincts were worrying them. He had them wondering which one of them he would shoot. Right now he was only playing for time. Time for the SWAT teams to get everything in place. He was playing a losing hand, three on one, to keep their attention riveted on him and not on the civilians.
Behind the gunmen, Ray's eye was caught by the pregnant woman's husband crawling over to her. The man who had been shopping for a ring was curled on the ground sobbing, but the husband's movement to join his wife was enough to distract Ray briefly, his eyes flickering away from the gunmen. In turn, the gunmen turned to see what he was looking at.
Ray could have kicked himself. The last thing he wanted was for the robbers to think clearly about using the pregnant woman as leverage. In desperation, he yanked his gun upward and fired at the ceiling, hoping like hell that there was no-one on the floor above. Surely by now everyone in the area would be cleared out.
"Hey!" he yelled as he shot.
The gunshot and the yell brought the attention squarely back on Ray.
The moment of truth. Ray saw the intent to shoot him in the eyes of the leader. Time was up. Ray leveled his gun and prepared to squeeze the trigger. He hoped that if he took the leader down with him, the other two gunmen would be too panicked to do any damage before SWAT finally got their asses into gear.
Before either man could fire, the door was slammed open off its hinges by a portable metal battering ram and the telltale slow hiss of a tear gas canister could be heard. Another canister was lobbed into the store from the direction of the back room. Ray just had time to realize he wasn't going to die before the gas hit, making his eyes stream and stealing the breath from his lungs with a fire that made his throat raw. SWAT team members in heavy black gear and gas masks stormed into the store. Ray dropped his weapon and put his hands over his head, doubling over and coughing as he did. No point getting mistaken for one of the bad guys and shot after making it through the face off with the madman.
"Pregnant lady in here." he yelled hoarsely as one of the SWAT team members pulled his hands up behind his back, cuffing him roughly. Which, Ray thought, was fair enough, since all they knew was he was the guy who fired a shot. A bout of coughing wracked him, and he struggled to draw breath, but as soon as he could, he spoke again. "Get her out, damn it, get her out."
The mistaken identity was sorted out as soon as Ray was hustled out of the building. Of course, it would have to be his captain who saw him handcuffed, crying, and coughing up a lung. He'd be living this one down for a while. But at least that meant that he was released and bundled off to be treated quickly.
Sitting in the back of one of the ambulances that had been called to the scene, a friendly paramedic gently washing his eyes out, Ray finally began to let down from the anger and adrenaline that had kept him functioning throughout the robbery. He felt a blanket being wrapped around his shoulders, warming him from chills he hadn't even noticed.
The sky was a pale, bright square against the open doors of the ambulance, and the snow was still falling prettily. It seemed to Ray to be the most beautiful, most clean and stunning goddamned thing he'd ever seen. He should have been dead, and he was alive.
The image of Stella flashed in his mind. Stella on their wedding day, her dress as crisp white in satin as the snow-heavy clouds. She was so beautiful that day. Ray thought she still was. Beautiful, and he was alive, he'd been a second away from losing it all, but somehow he was still alive to go on, to go home to her. So what if they were fighting about kids? There was time.
There was time because he wasn't lying in a pool of blood and viscera on the floor of the jewelry store, a shot gun blast at close range taking out half his chest or his head. There was time to go home and tell Stella she was still as lovely, still as breathtaking as the first day he saw her. There was time to wait for her to be ready to talk about kids, ready to start their family. Because he was still breathing to be able to cough from the sting of the tear gas. Because not all the tears were chemically induced. They all could have been dead in there. And he'd been ready to trade his life for time, time for the others to be rescued.
Ray wasn't going to buy Stella that big shiny rock after all. Screw her family and what they thought. Her fancy friends and their fancy possessions. What was stuff? They had time. He'd spend the money and take her away for Christmas and show her every second that she was enough, and that it was enough that they were alive, and together.
Fraser: "In December 1990, in a jewelry store you singlehandedly held off three gunmen, saving four innocent lives. Your second citation."