Free 299 Days: The Stronghold by Glen Tate Page A

for everything, freedom is scary. It is like when an inmate is released from prison after thirty years. He is used to dinner at exactly 5:30 p.m. When he’s out of prison and 5:30 p.m. rolls around, he gets nervous because dinner isn’t there. Sometimes the stress of freedom leads former inmates to want to go back to prison for the comfort it provides. The comfort of not having to make any decisions or rely on themselves. The comfort of the FUSA.

 
    Chapter 113
     
    This is All Illegal
     
    (May 11)
     
     
    During the meeting that night at the Grange, Grant had been noticing Todd Snelling and his snarky facial expressions and little whispers to his group of apparent supporters. They included his wife, Dick Abbott, the retired LA cop, and three other “cabin people.”
    Be bold.
    Grant knew what the outside thought was talking about so he went with it.
    “So, Todd,” Grant said, pointing to the architect, “what do you think of all this?” Grant was putting his opponent on the spot. It was always best to be on the offense and then to de-escalate and look reasonable.
    “I think this place is a little militia dictatorship, with a bunch of testosterone fueling your hair triggers,” Snelling said with a sneer. That metrosexual sneer might have been a big hit in a Seattle conference room, but not out here in a Grange hall. Snelling’s supporters nodded slowly, like they were afraid of fully backing him. They were scared. Good, Grant thought. They ought to be.
    Snelling had a backpack slung over one shoulder. He took it off quickly and angrily—and started to open it. It looked like he was pulling out a gun.
    Everyone on the Team watched closely. They wouldn’t call “Threat!”—and draw their weapons—unless they saw an actual weapon. They didn’t want to overreact. Pulling guns on a guy in a crowded room full of innocents is to be avoided. Besides, politically, Grant didn’t want the “macho” Team to draw weapons and scare everyone if Snelling was just getting out a pen.
    Snelling got out a piece of paper. He started to look at it until Grant rudely interrupted his train of thought.
    “Did you just get shot, Mr. Snelling?” Grant calmly asked.
    “No,” Snelling said indignantly. “That’s preposterous.” He rolled his eyes. Another effective tactic in a Seattle conference room, but not so much in the Grange with armed men.
    “Yes, it would be preposterous,” Grant said. Everyone was wondering where Grant was going with this seemingly ridiculous question about whether Snelling had been shot.
    “No, Mr. Snelling,” Grant said, “you did not get shot. You were concerned that the Team was on a ‘hair trigger,’ a testosterone fueled one, if I recall correctly.”
    With his hands up in the air, and away from his pistol, Grant made a trigger motion with his finger as if he were instructing a class. “Mr. Snelling, a ‘hair trigger’ means shooting too fast. These men—‘macho’ men as you call them—are very well trained and only shoot when they see a weapon. They did not see one and you did not get shot. That, sir, is the opposite of a hair trigger.” Grant was in his element. He was going to destroy this little Snelling shit. With words and body language.
    Snelling couldn’t speak. He had frozen. No one had ever talked to him that way. He had always been in control of a conference room or cocktail party. This Grange thing was different.
    After a few moments of the crowd seeing Snelling’s weakness, Grant decided it was time to make a vivid point. He said, “Wes, come here, please.”
    Wes came over and Grant handed him his rifle, after checking to make sure the safety was on, which it was.
    “Bobby?” Grant motioned for him to come over. Grant drew his pistol and, keeping it pointed in a safe direction, handed it to Bobby.
    The crowd was spellbound. Was Grant going to shoot Snelling right here in front of everyone? The crowd had no idea what Grant was doing, but they knew it was