Aquilinus Gonell #2

A Battle for the Republic

The morning of January 6, 2021, was cold and overcast in Washington, D.C. The Capitol dome loomed above the city like a sentinel, a symbol of resilience that had stood the test of time. Inside the building, lawmakers had begun their work to certify the Electoral College votes—a mundane process that had taken place without incident for generations. But outside, something dark was stirring.

Aquilinus Gonell stood at his post near the West Front of the Capitol, dressed in full tactical gear. The weight of his equipment was familiar—the helmet, the protective vest, the radio crackling with routine updates. He had no reason to believe that this day would be any different from the others he’d worked during political protests. But as he stared out toward the horizon, he saw the first sign that this wasn’t going to be ordinary.

The crowd outside wasn’t just large—it was massive, stretching far beyond the usual protest zones. Flags whipped in the wind, some emblazoned with slogans of defiance, others bearing ominous symbols of militias and extremist groups. The noise of the crowd wasn’t the typical hum of chants and speeches—it was a low, rumbling anger. Aquilinus adjusted his shield, his instincts on high alert. Something was wrong.

By early afternoon, the mood had shifted from tense to explosive. The President had just finished speaking at a rally nearby, urging the crowd to march to the Capitol and “fight like hell.” Almost on cue, the mob surged forward.

Within minutes, the barricades were overwhelmed. The mob tore through the fencing like a tidal wave crashing against a levee. Officers stationed outside shouted warnings into their radios: "They’re through! We need backup!" The air was thick with the smell of pepper spray and smoke. Rioters hurled rocks, poles, and anything they could grab at the officers who stood in their path.

Aquilinus didn’t hesitate. He ran toward the chaos, joining the officers forming a defensive line at the Capitol steps. His heart pounded as he saw the sea of rioters closing in—hundreds of them, faces contorted with fury. Many wore tactical gear: helmets, goggles, and vests. This wasn’t just a protest—it was an attack.

The officers braced themselves as the mob slammed into the line. Aquilinus raised his shield, the impact reverberating through his arms as rioters shoved against him with terrifying force. One man swung a metal pole like a club, striking Aquilinus in the shoulder. Pain shot through his arm, but he held his ground.

"Hold the line!" someone shouted.

Aquilinus gritted his teeth and pushed back against the mob. He wasn’t just holding the line for his fellow officers—he was holding it for the lawmakers and staffers trapped inside the building, for the people watching in horror from their homes, and for the democracy that was being threatened in real-time.

The rioters hurled insults at the officers, calling them "traitors" and "cowards." Some screamed that they were "defending the country" and that the officers were "on the wrong side." But Aquilinus knew the truth: they weren’t defending the Constitution—they were trying to destroy it.

The line began to buckle under the weight of the mob. Aquilinus felt the pressure against his shield intensify as more rioters poured forward. They had weapons—bats, flagpoles, even fire extinguishers they’d ripped from the walls. One man grabbed Aquilinus by the collar of his vest, trying to pull him into the crowd. Aquilinus slammed his shield into the man’s chest, knocking him back.

But the mob was relentless. Aquilinus’s shield cracked as more rioters swung at him. His radio crackled with desperate calls for reinforcements. "We need backup now!" an officer shouted. But there were no reinforcements—not yet. They were outnumbered, outmatched, and fighting to protect a building that had suddenly become the front line of a battle for democracy itself.

Aquilinus’s breath came in ragged gasps as he fought to stay upright. His legs burned from the strain, but he refused to fall. He thought about his family—his wife, who worried every time he left for a shift, and his young son, who looked up to him as a hero. He thought about the soldiers he had served with in Iraq, some of whom had never made it home. If he had survived a war zone halfway across the world, he wasn’t going to let a mob tear down the Capitol.

But the battle was far from over. As the rioters broke through the outer defenses and surged deeper into the building, the officers were forced to retreat step by step. Aquilinus and his team were ordered to regroup inside the lower levels of the Capitol, where they made a desperate attempt to fortify another line of defense. The narrow hallways became chokepoints, with officers using their shields and batons to hold back the waves of rioters.

At one point, Aquilinus slipped on a slick patch of water from a fire extinguisher that had been discharged. He hit the ground hard, and for a terrifying moment, he couldn’t breathe. His body ached from head to toe, and his vision blurred. A hand reached down to him—it was a fellow officer, pulling him back to his feet.

"You good?" the officer asked, his voice hoarse.

Aquilinus nodded, though every muscle in his body screamed in protest. "I’m still here," he muttered.

The hours that followed felt like an eternity. The sound of fists pounding against doors, the shouts of the rioters, and the explosions of flashbangs echoed through the halls. Aquilinus had never felt so close to the edge of collapse. He could see the exhaustion in the faces of the officers around him—the bruises, the blood, the desperation. But he also saw something else: resolve.

When reinforcements finally arrived, the tide began to turn. The rioters were forced back, pushed out of the building step by step. Aquilinus stood at the center of the chaos, battered but unbowed. He watched as the last of the mob was driven away from the Capitol steps, their shouts fading into the cold night air.

As the dust settled, the Capitol was eerily silent. Broken glass crunched beneath Aquilinus’s boots as he walked through the rotunda, surveying the aftermath. The paintings that adorned the walls—depictions of America’s founding—were smudged with soot and debris. The statue of George Washington stood stoic amid the wreckage, a silent reminder of the country’s resilience.

Aquilinus leaned against a marble column, his body trembling from exhaustion. His uniform was soaked with sweat and stained with blood, but he was still standing. The Capitol still stood.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the weight of the day sink in. He had done his duty—just as he had in Iraq, just as he had sworn to do when he first put on the Capitol Police uniform. But as he stood in the ruins of the rotunda, he knew that the battle for the soul of the nation wasn’t over. The physical fight had ended, but the fight for the truth—the fight to hold those responsible accountable—was just beginning.