The garish costumes worn on the patriot side didn’t quite compare to the piece of work we encountered at the intersection with 12th Street. Some hero was dressed like Zorro, with a mask and cape just like in the movies. His hat was different, though—it appeared to be borrowed from one of the Three Musketeers, with a bright pink plume. He wielded an eight-foot whip.

Some of us scoffed at first, but apparently he knew how to use that whip, which was not a weapon to be laughingly dismissed. It sliced right through the pant leg of one of the unarmored patriots who had mixed in with the Enforcers, and he yelped from the sting. The Swashbuckler cracked it again, tearing a slash down the same man’s shirt, leaving a bloody red stripe along the chest and stomach. Zorro could cut someone in half, if they remained in the lash zone of the whip’s reach.

We had to get in close.

After some simple hand signals to nearby Enforcers, we charged.

The Swashbuckler jumped back to keep us in the lash zone, and snaked his weapon out again. The end of it wrapped around Redbeard’s ankle. Thinking fast, Redbeard stepped on the whip with his other foot. Swashbuckler pulled back on the whip, but couldn’t yank it free.

Hammerhead smashed into the Swashbuckler, ramming him with his shoulder, and headbutting him with his lowered batter’s helmet, driving Swashbuckler hard into the wall of a building.

When he bounced off the wall, he lurched forward right into my well-timed uppercut.

Lights out.

Perhaps the police realized their plan had fallen apart, and tried to adapt to the rapidly evolving scenario. They redeployed at intersections east of 14th Street and formed up. They shouted through bullhorns, tossed flash-bangs, and launched tear gas canisters. Their dilemma was that they couldn’t always tell who was on which side, so they weren’t as big a help to Antifa as the mayor and police chief hoped they would be.

We marched on. Some of the veterans had brought protective masks, and donned them. But tear gas in the outdoors was a cakewalk compared to the concentrated CS that combat arms veterans were exposed to in the gas chamber.

We held our breath when necessary, and drove on.

If anything, the police intervention so far had helped us clear the street even faster. The Blackshirts were already frustrated to be facing people who not only defended themselves, but took the offensive. They hadn’t signed up for tear gas and flash-bangs.

We fought skirmishes here and there along the side streets, where the cops abandoned their cordon to redeploy farther down our route of march, but the tide had turned in our favor. We seemed to hit critical mass. Resistance collapsed and their retreat became a rout.

Another Braveheart moment took place: patriots raised a battlecry and charged down the street after the demoralized enemy. I yelled myself hoarse for them to ration their energy and maintain discipline, but dozens of them were caught up in the rush and ignored me.

Many Enforcers and other patriots stuck with me. We advanced at a route step that ate up distance without smoking us. Several patriots marched with banners held high. Gadsen Flags and the Stars and Stripes fluttered in the cold wind that drove down the street.

Our impulsive allies out in front of us blundered into an ambush. The police blasted them with a water cannon, then fired about 20 tear gas shells. The patriots had wasted themselves with that dramatic sprint and were discumbobulated when a salvo of flash-bangs touched off all around them. Phalanxes of cops, masked-up with shields, helmets and riot batons, moved in to finish them off.

I yelled for the Enforcers to hold to the present pace, but I steered us right at the police flank.

I worried about what the men around me would do. I suspected most of them were heavily programmed “back the blue” types and would balk at mixing it up with badges. Maybe all of them would, and I’d be left out in the lurch—a “lone nut” who would be easily surrounded, subdued, and made an example of.

I drove on.

Right before we reached them, a police captain turned to see us bearing down. Our approach probably wiped the smirk right off his face, though I couldn’t actually read any expression behind his gas mask. He turned and tried to warn his boys in blue, but it was too late.

The Enforcers didn’t balk. We had a beautiful enfilade and took them in flank with a pretty decent surprise factor. Dozens of them were bowled over. Dozens more got in each others’ way and were rendered ineffective. Some managed to turn and engage us in Bronze Age combat, but unlike Antifa, they didn’t have a numerical advantage over us.

The riot cops were rolled up within minutes. Then, there before us was the river, and the mass of our enemy backed up against it, exhausted and dejected from their retreat, and the beating they took along the way.

I took a gas mask off a cop, intending to let Hammerhead use it (he hadn’t worn goggles and the gas was blinding him), but the water cannon swept through our ranks and tore the mask right out of my hand, blasting me backwards where I tripped over somebody and went down.

I rolled to my belly and lifted to all fours, looking over the area around the MRAP with the water cannon and cursing myself for not dispatching a team to deal with it before we broke the police line.

I regained my feet and charged the MRAP, slapping and tugging at Enforcers as I went, hoping they would catch my hint and come with me. Some of them did.