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5 P.M., TUESDAY, JAN. 11, 2022, Portland State University — Miguel Garcia was shaking. He needed to find Will, Ryan, Cage and Chief Ramirez. In any order. He had been in a cubbyhole in the student union for the Zoom meeting, and now he peered outside to the Park Blocks. It was getting dark, and the Park Blocks looked full of people. He considered the challenge. He went up to the third floor, over the bridge to the student services building, down the southern flight of stairs, and out that door. That put him on the small patio to the Campus Security building. He walked rapidly across it and ducked inside. It was a madhouse too. He spotted Ren, which was good.
“Where’s the Chief?” he asked the gangly young reporter. Ren made J.J. look mature. Damn the staff was young. Ren gestured toward the back offices. “I’ve been listening to the radio,” Ren said. “It’s getting worse out there.”
Miguel nodded. “Send Blair whatever you know through text.”
He pushed toward the desk, and a dispatcher he knew spotted him. “Delores,” he said quietly, “I need the Chief. Now.”
She didn’t ask questions, bless her heart, just buzzed open the gate and let him through. He knew where Ramirez’s office was, although the building wasn’t large enough to miss it even if he hadn’t. A ramshackle building amongst towering new academic buildings — he wondered when it would get a remodel? He shunted that thought aside and knocked on Ramirez’s door.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said, when Ramirez looked up. “Protesters just threw a brick through the exterior glass door at EWN.”
Ramirez got up, shrugged into a harness that held his weapon and then added a jacket. It said police on it. “Let’s go,” he said. “Did they call it in?”
Miguel shrugged. “Don’t know. They said find you, I found you.”
Ramirez paused at the front desk where Delores was holding down the fort. “Call PPB for reinforcements,” he said quietly. “We’re going to need them in the Park Blocks. And I need some backup at the EWN building.”
She nodded.
“And if you could put out a word to your officers to watch for Will Bristol, Ryan Matthews or Cage Washington?” Miguel asked. “That would be good.”
“Who’s at EWN then?” Ramirez asked. He looked at the mass of people in the Park Blocks and turned south instead of north. Miguel just followed him.
“Blair,” Miguel said. “Ben and Corey. Joe maybe? Most people are out here covering something or had the sense to stay home.”
“Try your phone, send out texts to those missing three. Tell them to report in to you,” Ramirez ordered. Miguel had already sent them texts, but he didn’t argue. He did it again.
It was damp out and getting colder. Sunset this week was at 5 p.m. so it was dark already. Miguel swallowed hard. It was hard to fight against flashbacks to last year’s Blue Lives Matter protests that had built a scaffold and hung a noose outside the EWN offices inspired by the January 6 insurrection at the U.S. Capitol. He took a deep breath and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his REI-reject jacket with all of its pockets. He would wear it until it fell off him in tatters. There was no better jacket for a photographer or videographer. He had his videocamera around his neck, and they were moving fast enough that it bounced against his chest. He normally moved slower, trained by the camera for the optimal speed. But Ramirez was moving rapidly, although he didn’t look like he was hurrying. Quite the trick. Don’t spark panic or even notice but cover ground. Miguel just worked to keep apace. And he kept his cell in his hand, so he could watch to see if he got a return text.
Nada.
He swallowed. It was unlike the three of them to not be in contact. He thought Ryan had the phone surgically attached to his body. He had never sent a message before that didn’t come back with what’d you need? He could see Cage having his camera up and filming — for Oregon Public Broadcasting tonight, he thought — and not hearing the text come in.
Will? The last time Will went dark, someone had kidnapped him.
Come to think about it, the last time Ryan went dark, he’d been rescuing Will.
That didn’t help. Miguel controlled his breathing. He’d be hyperventilating soon and be of no help to anyone if he wasn’t careful. Worse, he’d slow Ramirez down. Wherever Ramirez was going. Miguel narrowed his eyes and squinted through the misty dark. Oh. He was taking the walking path around to the parking structures down by 13th Street. They’d be able to cut between a couple of buildings and end up at the alley door without being seen. Smart. He wondered how many hours Ramirez had walked the campus during the last year to know it this well.
Then Ramirez detoured, and it turned out that wasn’t where he was going at all.
“I want you to go to the alley door, and get everyone down,” Ramirez said in a low voice.
“Chief, they won’t leave,” Miguel told him. “They’ll block the stairs and stay no matter what. Stay on the air. Stay to protect the equipment. There’s a million dollars of equipment in that building. We would be off the air all term replacing it. They won’t leave. Trust me.”
Miguel had heard Ramirez swear, and his swearing abilities were much admired among EWN staff, but he’d never heard him switch to Spanish before.
“It’s not worth their lives,” Ramirez said furiously.
“Here’s the plan us editors devised last summer,” Miguel said rapidly, “and I suspect they’re following it now. Everyone non-essential has already left. Either out the alley, or down the fire escape. Sam will stay on the air up in the radio station. He’s last out, and only if there’s actual fire, because he is on the third floor. Ben makes the call on what happens because he’s always there. He’ll try to convince the women to leave, and Blair and Bianca will laugh in his face. By now there’s Joe — I think — Ben, Corey, Bianca and Blair left in the newsroom. Maybe a couple of other stragglers. That’s it. But as long as they are there? We’re live and the bad guys can’t win.”
Miguel tapped his phone and called up the channel where EWN would broadcast later tonight. “See? Ben’s already secured airtime, and they’re live now.” Miguel kept the sound muted. Ramirez glanced at his phone and muttered more Spanish. Miguel laughed. Power words, his uncle called them.
“Fine,” Ramirez said resignedly. “Stay across the street, OK?”
Miguel raised an eyebrow in question, but he did as he was told. He glanced at his phone for texts. Nothing. He stood across Mill Street, blending into the bushes along the buildings there — another reason he liked the REI olive drab jacket — and he raised his videocamera up to watch Ramirez through it. He set it to livestream and watched as the police chief stopped in the center of the street.
“All right,” Ramirez said. “Back away from the building. Hands where I can see them.”
There was some muttering. A few people complied.
“This is PSU Police Chief Ramirez,” he continued, and repeated his instructions. “I need you to back away from the building, hands where I can see them. Sit down on the curb, please.”
Miguel was impressed; some of them, maybe even most, were complying. He hoped his mic was picking it all up. He wanted to move closer, but he was afraid movement would distract from Ramirez’s control of the situation.
He saw two men moving swiftly toward the EWN building from campus. He swung his camera in their direction, recognized Lt. Young and swung back toward the chief. Ramirez had backup coming.
But not fast enough. Miguel saw the guy who was standing to the north of the building lean back as if he was going to throw something. “Incoming!” Miguel shouted. Ramirez pulled his service weapon. A Molotov cocktail went up in flames as it shattered against the bricks of the EWN building. The protesters shouted and scattered. Ramirez dropped to a crouch. He grabbed his radio, said something into it. Miguel was running toward him, his camera in the air so Young and the other officer would recognize him.
He heard a fire siren in the distance. And then Miguel couldn’t hear anything else above the beating of his own heart as he ran for the door. He pulled Ramirez to his feet as he went by, thrusting his camera into Ramirez’s arms.
Miguel pulled off his jacket and beat at the flames that were finding purchase at the shattered door. He paused, punched the button to be let inside, glanced at the camera so they could see who it was. Then when he heard the door buzzer, he jerked the door open, and smothered the remaining flames with his jacket. He saw the line of unlit gasoline as it spread out from the bottle across the entrance floor. No fire followed. He swallowed, his eyes closing in relief. That had been all too close.
“Damn fool,” growled someone as they pulled him back out of the entrance to the building.
Miguel shivered as the adrenaline left as quickly as it arrived. He wrapped his arms around himself, as he watched the officers make sure the fire was out.
Damn it, he thought. Another REI jacket bites the dust.