“October Strong” by Allyn T. Goodrich is a powerful novel that intertwines the lives of law enforcement officers, first responders and civilians connected to the tragic Route 91 Harvest Festival shooting in Las Vegas. Through interwoven narratives, the book highlights those who ran toward danger to save lives, offering an authentic tribute to their sacrifice and the unbreakable spirit of a community in crisis.
Goodrich, a seasoned Las Vegas SWAT officer, brings authenticity to the novel, drawing from his extensive experience in law enforcement. With a deep respect for the men and women who serve, he crafts a compelling tribute to their bravery, offering a raw and heartfelt look at the human spirit in the face of adversity. Order your copy here. All proceeds from the book are donated to The Wounded Blue.
“October Strong": Chapter 10
Mike sat in his patrol car, scowling at the view of the Strip that he usually enjoyed. Chewing his tasteless bite of chicken salad sandwich, he contemplated the last few days.
Earlier that week, he had sat in his vehicle with a totally different attitude. He had been parked just outside of the SWAT range with his mind racing.
For the last few years, he had carefully developed contacts on the SWAT team to better learn what preparations he needed to make to join their team.
He loved being a cop and had loved the Gang Unit. But SWAT was something else, something better, something he craved.
In addition to their daily demands, without fail, they trained several times a week in this very complex. Las Vegas SWAT was one of the premier tactical teams in the world and he was determined to count himself among their ranks.
He dedicated most of his own time off to training, helping with role-playing, and just hanging around so the operators would know his face.
The physical portion of the test was similar to Special Forces selection. Candidates would be put through several days of intense workouts, grueling scenarios, and a multitude of physical and mental challenges.
The upcoming testing had consumed his every thought and action over the last several years, and he was ready. Well, as ready as was possible, anyway.
After all of his preparation, he sat in his car in what felt like the middle of the night, working up the courage to go in. The test was scheduled to begin at 0500, and like most other applicants, he had arrived a few hours early.
He gripped his steering wheel with sweaty palms, fighting the overpowering urge to heave whatever might be in his stomach. Though he hadn’t been able to eat anything this morning, the urge to vomit was too much. He opened his car door and emptied his stomach onto the pavement below.
He rummaged around a bag from last night’s takeout and found a single soiled napkin. It would have to do. He wiped his mouth as he watched the other candidates slowly arrive. He watched each one and knew that at the very least, he wanted this job more than anyone else walking into this facility today.
When the hour had arrived, the candidates assembled on the shooting platform. He stood shoulder to shoulder with about forty officers. On the firing line, feeling the cool touch of a weapon in his hands, Mike was no longer anxious. He allowed his nervous system to take him to peak awareness and performance.
He performed this part flawlessly with a near-perfect range score. He had expected nothing less of himself. He stood off to the side and watched the other candidates while mentally cataloging what the next portion of the test would require of him.
He observed several people fail the shooting portion and have to do the walk of shame out of the testing area.
With the shooting test complete, a senior SWAT Officer lined the candidates up in alphabetical order to take part in the obstacle course: the most physically demanding aspect of the SWAT test.
The course was long, consisting of a run with heavy gear, jumping over walls, crawling through tunnels, dragging heavy items, more shooting and more running. If that weren’t enough, a candidate also had to carry dummies weighing over 200 pounds, perform pull-ups and sprints, and climb rope ladders—all while wearing a gas mask.
The course was to be performed under the watchful eye of the SWAT team, and to add to the pressure, the entire course was timed, scored, and graded.
Mike’s training had put him in the best physical condition of his life, and he was looking forward to this course. He had painstakingly prepared for each element. If he performed as he trained, he expected to beat the speed record by thirty seconds.
“MIKE!” called the commander. “You’re up, pal.”
It felt good to hear his name called by the SWAT commander. Cocky, but still anxious, he made his way to the starting line and donned his mask. The commander blew the whistle and Mike rocketed into action.
He ran up a large hill and to a building, outside of which lay a 100-pound rucksack. Barely pausing, he hoisted it onto his shoulders, entered the building and began ascending some stairs.
Allowing his excitement to overpower caution, his speed caused him to stub his toe on the first step. This was immediately followed by a face-plant into the bottom of the staircase.
Instantly he knew the weight and force with which he slammed his foot into the stair had broken his toe. But if his years in wrestling taught him anything, it was to power through the pain.
Trying not to let his frustration distract him, he finished climbing the stairs and dropped his rucksack. There he saw the 200-pound dummy and grabbed it.
Barely breaking a sweat, he dragged the dummy to its destination and picked up his rucksack. He bounded down the stairs that had thwarted him a few minutes before and dumped his pack at the bottom.
A strap caught at something on his gun belt. As if out of a nightmare, Mike could do nothing as his belt was stripped from his waist and all his equipment spilled out onto the dusty floor below.
His heart sank but he didn’t hesitate to act. His gear had come apart upon impact and was scattered in all directions. He scrambled to put his belt back on and recover his gear.
Mike did his best to recover with decent shooting and a determined, but increasingly painful, run.
As he crossed the finish line, he listened closely to the time the moderator shouted out and remained outwardly composed. He was nowhere near the record and was overwhelmed by disappointment.
He sat against a concrete wall and tried to gather his breathing. The commander approached him. He stood up smartly, concealing evidence of pain or injury. Noticing the solemn look in the commander’s eyes, Mike stood straighter.
Not mincing words, the commander informed him that he was disqualified for having dropped his duty belt. He nodded, thanked the commander and left the facility.
Back in his truck, Mike instantly broke down into tears. He pounded his palm on the steering wheel before all fight left him and he simply rested his forehead on the steering wheel and cried.
He was not used to failure and was shocked to have performed so poorly after the grueling preparation. With a broken heart and crushed spirit, he drove home to tell Sarah the news.
Sarah, as always, was supportive with her signature brand of tough love. She did her best to console him, then instructed him to take a shower, eat something and go to work.
Mike’s current assignment was patrol officer. As much as he had loved his time in the Gang Unit, he’d needed to free up time for SWAT training.
Heading into work the day he had failed wasn’t easy. He dreaded explaining why he was back to work several days earlier than planned. His squad mates had tried to lift his spirits, poking fun, with limited success. He just couldn’t force his mind away from his failure.
He fiddled with his duty belt during the painfully long briefing and numbly found his way out to his patrol car. A conscientious officer, he did his best and answered calls promptly and appropriately, despite his inner turmoil.
By lunch, however, he’d had enough. He needed some time to think—alone. He found himself, out of habit, meandering toward his favorite lunch spot, winding his way up a particular parking garage he knew had an amazing view of his city. He parked in his favorite spot, eating what is usually his favorite sandwich, not tasting a bit of it. He looked out over the glittering lights of the city, enjoying the incongruity of the colors and movement with the quiet peace provided by the garage’s height.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement, pulling him from his thoughts. A man lumbered past the patrol car, eyes fixed ahead. This was odd. Most people had “cop car radar” and always noticed them. He continued to chew, mildly interested in the man limping up the last couple of steps.
With great effort and dexterity, belied by his obvious physical impairments, the man eventually hoisted himself up onto the safety barrier. It took only a few seconds for Mike to catch on to the situation.
“Oh no you don’t!” Mike said through a mouthful of food.
He threw down the remains of his sandwich and quickly but quietly exited his vehicle. He could see the man starting to lean forward as he approached.
Acting on instinct, Mike unlatched his powerful Streamlight duty light, thumbed the switch, and moved the beam from the ground up to the side of the would-be jumper’s head.
“Hey brother, whatcha doin’ up there?”
The voice Jim heard was calm. He turned toward the sound and found himself looking directly into a bright beam of light, not unlike the light that accompanied his childhood angel. He put a hand up to shield his eyes and leaned back, his curiosity overtaking his immediate need to jump.
Unsure of what to say, he spoke to the light.
“Um … nothing … I mean … uh—” He stood transfixed as the light drew closer, until he could almost touch it. The light slowly lowered and there stood a tall man wearing a tan uniform with a gold badge on the front. Jim was struck by his unexpectedly gentle countenance attached to such a bulky build.
Slowly, the officer extended a hand up to the man and spoke gently, but with authority.
“Come on down from that wall, big guy.”
Jim looked at the hand and froze.
Big Guy.
Those two words were a soothing balm on his heart. He took the officer’s hand and came down from the wall.
The officer put his arm around him, and he let the pain of his failures, his disabilities, and his loss of purpose wash over him in the safe embrace of this stranger in a quiet parking garage.
He tried to compose himself to speak but his chest was racked with sobs, completely overcome.
He thought his decision to end his life had brought him peace. But standing here, accepted by this man, he felt true peace and a warmth he did not immediately understand.
Mike stood there, holding this man, letting him expel whatever demons had driven him to this place. When he had shined the light at him, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He hadn’t seen mania, panic, or anger in the man’s eyes. He had seen raw emotion and resignation.
Luckily, he had also seen a glimmer of something else and seized the opportunity. Now the man’s pain had come loose in his arms and couldn’t be stopped.
After a short time, Mike decided it was time to talk.
“I’m going to have to radio this in. In these situations, I’m required to call an ambulance and you’ll be taken in to undergo a mental evaluation. Okay?”
“No, I don’t want to do that. They’ll try to keep me there and they’ll call my parents.”
“I’m sorry, Big Guy, it’s protocol. And it’s for a good reason too. You need to get checked out.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No, you don’t,” Mike said gently.
The big man heaved a sigh and nodded. “Okay. What do we do now? Do you cuff me or something?”
“No, brother. I call an ambulance and we wait.”
The ambulance soon arrived and the medics loaded Big Guy in and threw a quick wave to Mike before taking off. Mike waved back and headed to his cruiser.
He picked up his discarded sandwich, took a bite and chewed, relieved how the situation had been de-escalated. He’d done everything he was supposed to do in this situation. So, why did he still feel so anxious? The incident had ended better than most of these typically did, but he couldn’t shake it off like usual.
Letting out an exasperated grunt, Mike made the last-minute decision to follow the ambulance to the hospital to check up on Big Guy.
Mike dialed Sarah’s number as he waited in the queue to exit the garage and gave her a quick rundown of the night’s events.
“I’m not sure when I’ll be home. I’m following him to the hospital.”
“Really? How come?”
She knew it wasn’t common for him to follow up on these sorts of incidents.
“I don’t know, something about the kid just hit me. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until I check in on him.”
“Mike, you’re such a softy,” she teased, knowing he hated this designation. She continued, “You really are a big ol’ teddy bear—”
“K, hon, love you, bye,” he said in a rush then hung up. He chuckled as he turned out of the parking garage and headed off to the hospital.
For the remainder of his shift, Mike sat with Big Guy, or Jim as he now knew, and talked.
They laughed and, surprisingly, cried together through the night. Mike knew his disappointment was not the same as what Jim was going through, but there was enough to establish a kinship of understanding.
“It’s getting late,” Mike noted as he looked at his watch and noticed that his shift had been over for a while. “I’ll have to go in a bit.”
He didn’t want to be callous and just leave, so he visited with Jim for a few more minutes. Then the two exchanged phone numbers and Mike hugged Jim and promised to stay in touch.
As he walked by the nurse’s station on his way out of the wing, someone stopped him.
“Officer, everything okay? Are you related to the legal 2000?”
“No, I was the responding officer.”
“And you followed him to the hospital?” she looked at him quizzically.
“Yup. Take good care of him, please. He’s a good guy.”
He gave her a friendly nod and walked away. Deep in thought, Mike went to the station, completed his reports, and headed home.
Once he got home he went immediately to his bedroom, quietly undressed and eased himself into bed next to Sarah. He cursed himself for not being quieter when she began to stir. She rolled over and wiped the sleep from her eyes and gave him a small smile.
“Save any cats in the trees?”
He smiled at the well-worn joke. It was her way of asking about work, giving him an excuse to evade if he didn’t want to give details.
“Yeah, a big cat.”
Mike chuckled as he kissed her on the forehead and attempted to fall asleep. He stared up at the ceiling and let his mind make shapes from the textures he saw in the dim light. He reflected on the last few days and thanked his Maker for not only putting him in the right place at the right time, but with the right frame of mind.
His thoughts were interrupted by a vibration coming from his phone on the nightstand. Mike picked up the phone to see a text with a simple, but profound, message.
“Thanks bro. Jim.”
Jim had seemed to be a man of few words, and Mike knew that all he had in his heart was gratitude. Mike sent back a simple reply before falling asleep.
“Of course.”
About the author
Allyn T. Goodrich has had a long and active career in law enforcement starting in 2006. He has served on a variety of units, including patrol, mobile, crime saturation, homeland security, tourist crimes unit, patrol detective, central intelligence unit, and most recently, as a SWAT team leader.
Allyn has always been a gifted storyteller. In this book, he seeks to give voice to the brave men and women across America who sacrifice their lives to protect and serve others.
An avid outdoorsman, Allyn resides in Las Vegas, Nevada, with his family. This is his first novel.
