The younger Pennel siblings packed themselves into the backseat of the Jeep, still fumbling with the seatbelts as Austin shifted into drive, spinning the wheels and shooting out a fusillade of gravel as he yanked the wheel into a U-turn. He blasted the horn until some of the trapped cars rearranged themselves to clear a path.
From the passenger seat, Kenia turned to brief the Pennels on what had happened at her apartment. All three listened, the horror on their faces occasionally lit by the headlights of passing cars. “Don’t worry, I’m all right,” Kenia said, trying to reassure them and head off their questions before they could ask. She recounted what she could from Austin’s explanation regarding the chlortrofluorine, allowing Austin to add details when he felt it necessary, but mainly Austin drove—this time heedless of speed limits, double lines, or prohibitions against driving on the shoulder. Kenia closed her eyes and braced herself more than once for an impact that did not come.
“Don’t worry, Austin is an expert driver,” Stan said, his voice calm.
“The bigger question is what do we do when we get to the Bridgewater place,” Shane said. “Are we really certain they are behind this?”
“Certain enough,” Austin said.
Hailey said nothing, but hers was a brooding silence, her anger smoldering just beneath the surface. It unnerved Kenia.
“You all right, Hailey?”
“I will be when this is all over,” she said.
“These things, they’re not just ‘over,’” Austin said, speeding up the road to the ridge on the opposite side of the valley. Private driveways passed on either side. Kenia knew they were in the vicinity of the Bridgewater Estate, but how close, she was not sure. None of her interviews had taken her to this section of town.
“What do you plan to do when you get there, Austin?” Hailey asked.
Austin downshifted and they rounded a hairpin turn. He gunned the engine and shifted again, “D.W.I.G.H.T. it I guess.”
“Oh, that’s my favorite sort of plan,” Shane said, slapping the back of Austin’s seat.
“Who is Dwight?” Kenia asked.
“It’s an acronym: Decide When I Get the Hell There,” Stan explained.
“It’s code for ‘I don’t have a plan and I am acting recklessly,’” Hailey said, a maternal note of disapproval creeping into her voice.
“You heard Officer Keith,” Austin said.
“I like to think of this more like . . . improv,” Shane said.
“Anyone ever tell you, Shane, the world is not a stage?” Hailey said, crossing her arms.
Anxiety made a pit in Kenia’s stomach. “Is this such a good idea?” she asked, a well-illuminated gate coming up fast on their left.
“You don’t like spontaneity?” Shane said.
“I like staying alive. I’ve already had one close scrape tonight that your bother had to save me from.”
“It’s basic battlefield strategy,” Austin said. “Orient, Observe, Decide, Act, repeat. Even if it’s the wrong decision, it’s better than no decision. Whoever goes through that loop faster tends to win.”
“This isn’t war,” Kenia said.
“You sure?” Austin said without a smile, before he hit the brakes and skidded into the driveway, the scent of burnt rubber accompanying them. The Jeep’s RPMs redlined as Austin climbed the slope of the driveway.
“Gate was open. They must have been expecting us,” Shane said, craning his head into the front seat for a better view.
“No, they’re having a party,” Hailey said.
She was right. They emerged from the wooded driveway, and the mansion appeared—at least a wing of it. It was far too large, and they were far too close, to take in the entirety of it. The design was like a Flemish castle, with corner towers topped with conical peaks layered with slate shingles. The trees of the grounds were evergreens, perhaps to evoke a Scandinavian, alpine feel. Kenia noted horse stables and trailers off a branch of the driveway. Austin drove into a parking lot with a bed of fine, cinder-like gravel. It was surrounded on all sides by crimson Japanese maples, miniature pagodas, and packed full of luxury sedans and sports cars.
Beyond the parking lot, the lawn was aglow with Chinese lanterns. A white party tent—the kind Kenia had seen erected outside for dinner parties at country clubs, Sigma Pi Phi events, and Ivy League graduations—stood in the center of the bustle of well-dressed guests.
Austin drove as close as he could and came to an abrupt stop next to teenaged boys in red jackets, black slacks, and black running shoes, standing next to a valet stand. Austin cut the engine, got out and kept his keys to himself, growling at the valets, “Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”
Kenia and the other Pennels ran to keep up with him. They plunged into the casual elegance of the summer garden party, weaving through figures in pressed polo shirts, Burberry blazers, and Versace dresses, with the occasional Ralph Lauren sweater tied over the wearer’s shoulders. By the people Kenia could see in the garden—and the tent through the faux windows—she estimated the crowd to be about three hundred people. The Bridgewaters had offered an impressive spread: a chocolate fountain, raw oyster bar, a Mongolian style grill—flames flashing as the chef in immaculate white flipped a slab of meat.
The servers were all female and looked to be moonlighting actresses and models. Their tops were formfitting button-downs with bow ties and cummerbunds that accentuated their small waists and buxom chests. They smiled invitingly at the middle-aged and older men who cracked jokes with self-satisfied smiles, as if convinced by the rented friendliness of the hired twenty-somethings, oblivious to their wives, who looked away with scowls and reached for more drinks. Many of the wives had congregated at the numerous bars where eye-candy male bartenders, two at each bar plus bar-back, shook drinks with the efficiency of soldiers and the easygoing smiles of gigolos. By the sound of the raucous laughter coming from the women, the bartenders appeared to be giving out generous pours.
Two Latino men picked at elegant classical guitars on a small stage against a backdrop of blooming hydrangeas. Beyond the flowers, children played in a section of lawn, supervised by white college co-eds in matching knit shirts and khaki shorts. A clown made balloons, and a gas generator let out a gentle hum, while it kept a row of bouncing castles inflated.
Kenia and the Pennels passed through the tent. It was lit by hanging chandeliers. A marble fountain filled with koi bubbled in the center while a sommelier with a pencil mustache moved between tables. Austin scanned the crowd like a hunter. When he did not spy his target, he continued through the tent to the far side.
The full rotunda of the mansion came into view. Every window in every room glowed with warm light, the front façade lit by floodlights and accented by flickering Edwardian-style English gas streetlamps. It formed a striking contrast in Kenia’s mind, ostentation versus invasion, when she remembered the Pennels’ homestead, last seen in the harsh glare of law enforcement floodlights.
Her mind kept coming back to the same word: privilege. The whole place was saturated in it, and yet even as the Pennel children looked around wide-eyed, she recognized in herself a certain familiarity with the setting. Had she not been to weddings, debutante balls, and college graduations with all the same trappings and similar guests? It was an uncomfortable realization to make, even as she felt the scratches, strains, and bruises from her recent flights and fights on her body.
On a quiet terrace of the lawn that smelled of cigar smoke, Austin homed in on his target. By now he had a great lead on them, and the four of them had to run to catch up. As they did, Kenia could not help but notice the tall, athletic men in black shirts wearing leather hip packs and earpieces with coiled wire running down their necks and under their collars. Each had the physique of professional bodybuilders or soldiers. They did not fail to notice Austin’s approach, speaking into their wrists and moving to the edges of a table where half a dozen men were seated.
The seated men each had an air of distinguished pedigree. They lounged in dinner jackets and wore slacks with creases sharp as knives. Their skin was smooth and unblemished, their nails buffed. Those who folded one ankle up on their knees revealed that they wore loafers without socks. Three women, ages ranging from thirty to late fifty, sat with them drinking cosmos and apple martinis. The men let out a burst of synchronized laugher, a picture of careless, genteel comradery and mutual regard.
“Harold Bridgewater,” Austin called out. A fit, tan man in his fifties, his temples flecked with gray, turned, setting down his cigar in an ashtray and picking up a scotch on the rocks. He took a sip, savoring it with an intake of breath, followed by a wide relaxed smile, “Yes, that is me. Are you enjoying yourself? I’m afraid we have not met.”
“I’m Austin Pennel. You know who I am.”
The other men seated near Harold were regarding Austin with suspicion. Kenia noticed the woman next to Harold, his wife perhaps—her face immobile, her breasts full and set high on her chest—exchange a subtle glance with one of the black-clad men on the periphery. The bodyguard signaled to one of his comrades and they moved in closer.
Austin did not fail to notice. But before he could speak again, Bridgewater stood and offered his hand.
“You are the war hero. Captain Pennel, if I recall. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Mr. Bridgewater, I’m here to tell you that if you threaten my family or my friends in any way, all sorts of hell will rain down on you and all you hold dear.”
A pause followed that the swell of music and background conversations could not cover up. The men shifted as the awkwardness grew. One of the younger women checked her phone while Mrs. Bridgewater tapped at the stem of her glass with a polished nail, painted the color of blood.
“There must be some sort of misunderstanding,” Mr. Bridgewater said with a convincing display of innocence mingled with concern. “I’d never do such a thing. If you feel threatened, I’d like to know if there was anything I could do to help.”
The muscles in Austin’s forearms flexed, his USMC tattoo rippled. One of the men at the table took a sip of his scotch while another pulled a long drag off his cigar before blowing it in Austin’s direction.
Austin was unmoved. “I’m not playing games, Mr. Bridgewater.”
Then, quietly as he had intruded, Austin turned and left. Kenia thought it well-timed, for it was abrupt enough that it left Bridgewater without a retort. He was speechless and off balance. He could have tried to reply, but he would have had to raise his voice at Austin’s back, calling attention to himself, diminishing himself before his peers. Instead Harold Bridgewater chose to play the benevolent host, turning to the other Pennels, but ignoring Kenia.
“And you must be the rest of the Pennel clan. You’ve done a lot to bring jobs to folks in Selah Station with your little . . . show. You are town treasures, true entrepreneurs.” He turned to his guests and continued, “See, it’s young people like this who will make America great again.”
“Here, here!” the men said, rapping their knuckles on the table and raising their glasses.
“And you, young lady, I have not had the pleasure,” Bridgewater said, turning to Kenia. Face-to-face with him, she took in his whitened, bonded teeth, the professional tan on unblemished skin, the svelte physique honed by professional trainers and organic food. Even poised on level ground, she could sense the way he looked down on her, her braids tousled, her clothes dirty from running through the woods, her bruises and bandages from the violence visited upon her on full display. While at the same time, it did not escape her how his eyes wandered up and down the length of her body, as if tracing her figure and noting her own physical attributes the way any sexual predator might. In that moment, she felt all the pretentions and liberties of his race bearing down on her, her people, her ancestors.
She wanted to spit.
“I’m Keniabarido Ifeanyichokwo Diambu Dezy, and I have nothing to say to you.”
Bridgewater looked stricken. “Well again, I don’t know what has led to this misunderstanding, but please, I want to extend my hospitality to you. Make yourselves at home.”
“We should be going,” Shane said.
Kenia was more than ready.
Bridgewater waved down one of his servers. “I’ll have one of the girls get you to-go boxes. All this food should not go to waste.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Shane said, trying to corral his siblings off the terrace and in the direction of the parking lot where the Jeep was waiting for them. The moment had passed. Austin had left at the right time. They should have known they would not rattle a blueblood like Bridgewater any more than Austin already had with the element of surprise. It was Bridgewater’s turf, after all, and he was surrounded by peers and sycophants he would be determined not to lose face around.
Bridgewater was not ready to crack, but his wife was another story. The woman with the immobile face exuded resentment; it was clear in the way she knocked back her drink and snapped her fingers at the closest bodyguard. “Brent, get these orphans off my property.”
The word stung. Shane and Stan showed the injury in the way their shoulders pinched together. Hailey, by contrast, became a small fury, which in retrospect, Kenia realized she should have expected, for the anger had been building in the young woman at a slow boil all evening.
“You talk about making America great?” Hailey said, stepping towards the table of seated adults. “Great at what exactly? Great at locking people up, making weapons of mass destruction, great at exporting arms and ammunition abroad? Is that what makes us ‘great’? Or the fact we produce more pollution than any other country? Maybe it’s our climbing rates of infant mortality, obesity, and our failing educational system? Even while you fat-cat one-percenters get rich off white supremacy, structural violence, and mass incarceration?”
“Whoa, Hailey, time we probably should go,” Kenia said, stepping forward.
But the spirit of resistance had seized Hailey—she was too quick. She swiped up a martini glass by the stem and flung the contents into the face of Mrs. Bridgewater. “And if you call me and my brothers orphans again, I will punch you in the face so hard no amount of plastic surgery and Botox will fix it.”
Women were gasping. The men had stood up from the table, knocking over more glasses, spilling their contents into the laps of the other seated women. Shane and Kenia were of one mind. They picked Hailey up by the elbows while she kicked and cursed, knocking over a stand of discarded dishes in the process. The crash attracted more attention, conversations abruptly ending when the partygoers turned to stare. The men in black knit shirts were closing in while Stan blazed a trail through the crowd calling out, “Make a path, make a path, medical emergency!”
The stunned onlookers parted willingly, their faces flashing expressions of concern. Kenia kept checking over her shoulder as the men in black followed them out. They seemed content to keep a distance as long as she and the Pennels were on their way out. Kenia had no intention of testing their resolve or finding out what they carried in their hip packs.
Austin, as if he had sensed trouble in their delay, had backed the Jeep onto the lawn. Never had the illuminated taillights of a car looked so welcoming to Kenia. Hailey stopped resisting and walked-ran the rest of the way, she and her brothers scrambling over the tailgate while Kenia jumped in the front, slammed her door, and said, “Drive.”
Austin dropped the Jeep into gear, the wheels ripping into the Kentucky bluegrass and flinging it up at the guests in heavy clods of soil.
“Well, that was a nice get-together,” Shane said, after they had rolled down the driveway in uniform silence.
Stan let out a snort and started laughing. “I’ll say.”
“What the hell, Hailey! You were on fire. Where did all that come from? I need to write some of it down,” Shane said, fighting laughter himself.
“Such a basic bitch,” Hailey said, referring to Mrs. Bridgewater.
Even Austin cracked a smile now. They recounted for him what had transpired after he had left, as the Jeep roared down the driveway back to the main road. It was as if a seal had been broken, the tension released. All five of them laughed and shouted over one another to the point of screaming as they argued about what had been, for them, the “best part.” The double line of the main road lit up before them, Austin steered them home through the tunnel of old growth trees.
In was only when Kenia turned in her seat as she attempted to share her favorite part that she saw the grill of the black SUV, its headlights off, approach the back of the Jeep, its engine revving just before the driver swerved and connected with their rear fender.
The seatbelt crushed against Kenia’s torso. The knobby tires of the Jeep let out an abrupt screech before they lost contact with the road. The Jeep spun, flipped, and tumbled into the trees.