After a quick shower, I dress in my usual black, nondescript suit. I check the room twice for anything I may have forgotten—a phone charger, some runaway socks, or anything else that tends to go AWOL during hotel stays. I’ll ride in the limo with Wade, JoJo, and the Knights to the arena. Junior will drive.
Two taps on the door sound out, followed by three more. Liz stands in my doorway, her light brown hair tied back in a ponytail, a dimpled smile plastered on her face. She clutches a brightly colored red and black box to her chest, as if someone might snatch it from her at any moment. The grin tells me what it is before asking. She dances into the room.
“It’s finally here,” she says, “and it’s better than even I expected. This is the lightest, most powerful high-tech communications device in the industry, and guess what? They accepted our request to beta-test the latest version.” She opens the box, carefully placing the empty package on the bed. With a theatrical “Ta-dah” she whirls around, presenting a tiny earbud for my inspection. “Introducing ComLink 6.0.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Uh-huh? Is that all you have to say? For your information, Mr. Davis, this little earpiece can do things other gadgets can only dream about.”
“Assuming gadgets do, indeed, dream.”
“Okay, Neanderthal, enough with the wise cracks. Everybody else already loves their ComLink.”
“You mean I’m the last to get one?”
“Of course, I always save the best for last. Anyway, here’s the basics,” she says displaying the earpiece in the palm of her hand. “This tiny, wireless device has advanced speech amplification, dynamic noise control, holds a charge for three days, and has a range of eighty-five miles—eighty-five miles. It’s a multi-channel, totally hands-free, comfort fit, global positioning marvel. There’s never been anything like it.”
“Did you say hands free? Wait a minute, does that mean you’ll hear everything I say, wherever I am, at all times?”
“Ha, you wish. No, there’s a hyper-sensitive heat sensor coating on the outer shell. It activates at the slightest pressure of your touch—”
“You mean it’s got a button.”
She growls, a sound I’ve come to expect and like. “You’re hopeless.” After a deep breath, she tries a new approach. “With this tiny miracle, I’ll be able to track you, direct you, and protect you. This baby may very well save your life one day. It’s feather-light, waterproof, shockproof, and impervious to radio frequency interference. It also comes in a variety of colors. Here” —she pushes the earbud toward me— “yours is black.”
“Gee, thanks. Was pink unavailable?”
“Go on, try it on for size.”
I place it in my ear. It emits one soft beep. After a few seconds, I can’t even tell it’s there.
“All kidding aside, Brooks, thank you. I can finally keep an eye on you guys in real time, monitor your chatter, focus on the action, and call out the cavalry if needed. It’s about time you splurged on this gear instead of the dime store walkie talkies we were using. Honestly, that stuff was embarrassing.”
“I’m glad the new equipment has earned the Liz Childs seal of approval.”
“Ha, very funny.” She puts the ComLink box on the dresser along with a lanyard and a day pin. “Seriously, boss, this stuff is the bomb.”
“The bomb? A bit dated, but I’ll accept it. But don’t thank me, we’re able to spend on some long overdue upgrades because of this tour. And the fact that the ComLink folks cut us a break to be their Guinea pigs—”
“Beta testers,” she says with a big grin. “Nobody else in the world has anything close to what we’ll be using in the field.”
I pluck the earbud out of my ear and place it in my coat pocket. “Right. That’s what I meant. Is there anything else, Liz?”
“For God’s sake,” she says leaning in to me and pulling it out of my pocket, “don’t you dare lose it. ComLink does things no other device in the world can do. It can—”
“I’m glad you’re excited about it, and I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
“Neanderthal.” She winks and marches toward the door. With her hand on the knob, she hesitates. “Boss?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just that…well…we’re almost finished with this tour, and some of us were wondering…what I mean is—”
“Out with it, Liz. You’ve never been one to hold back, what’s on your mind?”
“Some of us were wondering what’s next? Is there another job lined up after Vegas? Because if there isn’t, well, some of us need to put out feelers. I hate to be so blunt—”
“Feelers? Listen, as far as the future is concerned, I’ve got a line on something that’ll keep us all busy for a very long time. I can’t say anything more about it right now, but just be patient, okay?”
She brightens. “Yes, sir.” She pulls open the door. “And thank you.”
I place the ComLink back in my ear and wait for the faint beep. The tiny gadget makes me think about Liz, which makes me smile.
“Ten minutes out,” Junior’s voice comes over the device crisp and clear.
“Roger that.” I glance at my watch. It’s showtime.
I grab my bag and leave a tip, in US dollars, on the pillow for the hotel staff. “Greenbacks” go a lot further than pesos. Even though I didn’t use room service, and stayed just one night, the money is a small thank you for a clean, comfortable place to stay.
It only takes a few minutes to negotiate my way down to the parking garage. Junior is at the wheel of the black limo. I throw my bag in the trunk. Wade, JoJo, and the Knights step out of the elevator and into the limo. I take my place in the front passenger’s seat—shotgun—and place my hand under my coat.
“Good evening, Brooks.” Dr. Knight’s voice is enthusiastic.
I turn and nod. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“God willing,” he says.
He always says this, whether it refers to the time it takes to get from point A to point B, or when we drop him off at his hotel suite and I habitually say, “Piece of cake.” I guess Knight’s view is one way of looking at things—it’s all in God’s hands. I prefer to take a more practical approach, at least when it comes to the short-term future. It’s really in the hands of my team. If we keep our eyes peeled, and our equipment performs as designed, the future will be one less thing to worry about…God willing.
We pick up two police motorcycle escorts as we emerge from the garage. There’s only a few protesters with hand-drawn signs loitering on the sidewalk. Their message is weak at best—We Are Not One. One sign even says, No One, whatever that means. In any case, they pose no threat and we speed past them as if they aren’t even there. Knight never seems to mind the protest signs. If anything, he enjoys their creativity.
The red and blue lights of the motorcycles get traffic out of our way. Just outside the arena we pick up two more police escorts. The demonstrators are thicker here, and with good reason—more press. The protestors have exchanged their hand-made signs for a more professional look. Uniformed in color—red and black—and cut to a standardized size, they even carry slogans that are a bit more professional. Anwar Go Home—We Are Free—and a new one I hadn’t seen before—A Dark and Stormy Knight. I point it out to Junior.
“I like that one.” Knight nods his head and laughs. “People can be so creative.”
The limo slows down and I give Junior a glance. He shakes his head and yells at the motorcycle cop who has drifted in front of the bumper. Junior stomps on the brakes. I brace my hands against the dash. “What the…”
“Sorry, boss,” he says, “I can’t run over him…can I?”
“Just nudge him out of the way.”
Demonstrators surround the limo, some of them banging on the windows. I crack my window open a few inches. The motorcycle cop is still blocking our way, and I’m pissed. “Pendejo!”
The cop jerks his bike to the right and turns to face me. His glare registers just before the pistol in his right hand gets my attention. Pop. Pop. Pop.
The shots aren’t aimed at me. Junior hits the gas and tags the back of the leading motorcycle, sending the officer flailing to the ground. I turn around to get a look at the Knights. JoJo and Wade are covering him like a winter coat. The limo speeds past the protesters and screeches into the underground garage. I’ve got my 9mm out of its holster, pointed down at the floorboards. My heart is bouncing around in my chest like a pinball.
“What the hell just happened?” I shout to no one, and everyone.
The limousine lurches to a stop in front of the elevators. Although the vehicle’s windows are bullet proof, and the tires are run flats, I don’t trust the integrity of the limo to fend off anything but a few more rounds.
Somehow, I’ve become an observer. As if the chaos in the garage, in the limo, and in myself are happening to someone else, akin to watching a movie trailer—I’m detached. Junior opens his door and twists to the left, wincing in pain. He’s hit. JoJo opens my door and drags me out. Two policemen fire at the motorcycle cop who has followed us, on foot, into the garage. He fires back. JoJo grunts and falls. The smell of gunpowder, the sound of gunfire fills the garage.
“What the hell?” Wade shouts. Junior, and I have our arms around the Knights, dashing away from the limo and into the elevator. The doors slide shut, muffling the awful noise.
I glance at Anwar and Tilly, searching for any signs of harm.
Wade’s hands are shaking. “You okay, Junior?”
I follow Wade’s eyes to Junior. Blood trickles down his shoulder.
Junior shrugs. “It’s just a graze, I’m okay.”
“Shit.” I’m slow on the uptake, the movie trailer taking its time to end so I can rejoin the live action. “Did anybody see JoJo get up?”
“Boss,” Junior says, “he didn’t.”
I slap at the buttons on the panel in the elevator car. It continues its slow hydraulic climb to the first level. I bang even harder at the buttons. The need to get back down to the garage, to get to JoJo, is killing me.
“Junior, go with Wade. Get the Knights to the green room.” I shout out, “Copy that Smitty, Gayle? Go to the green room.”
“The troops are on the way, boss.” It’s Liz. With every second that rushes by, her soothing voice in my ear calms me down. She will already have called in the proper response—military, police, paramedics, whatever it takes.
When the elevator stops, I train my weapon on the door and step to the front as a human shield. “Anwar, Tilly, go with Wade and Junior. They’ll keep you safe.”
“No,” Dr. Knight says, “you stay with us.”
I shake my head. “No. I have to go back downstairs. Go with Wade, you’ll be safe.”
The doors slide open. The area is clear. We pile out of the elevator, Wade and Junior shielding the Knights. They dash off toward the green room. I turn to the stairs.
In a firefight, time is the enemy. The longer it lasts, the more damage done. Even though I’m only one flight above the parking garage, it takes forever to clamber down the dark and humid stairwell—precious seconds zipping by. The closer I get to the garage, the more details attack my senses—gunshots, the smell of cordite, and the cries of battle.
At the bottom landing, I pause rather than rush into the garage. The familiar pop-pop-pop of a small caliber weapon, probably the .38 special that started this shit-storm, rings out from the other side of the metal door. I push the panic bar. A uniformed figure spins around. It’s the motorcycle cop who took us all by surprise. Without hesitation, I put two bullets in his head. He fires his pistol over his head and crumbles to the ground. My ears ring. Approaching footsteps and raised voices blend together in a muted buzz. The words are familiar, battle cries, a mix of adrenaline and testosterone—a lethal combination.
I drop my pistol, raise my hands, and shout, “Policìa.” JoJo is ten feet away, legs twisted like a rag doll, his polished shoes twitching. He’s alive. Keeping my hands in the air, I take baby steps toward him. His dark face lies on the oil stained concrete, blood oozing from his wounds.
“Alto,” somebody shouts, “No se mueva.”
“Soy la policìa,” I yell, edging closer still to JoJo.
The familiar voice of Major Flores calls out, “Detengase.” Stand down.
Cradling JoJo’s head in my arms, I tell him to breathe, assuring him help is on the way. Blood covers the ground. I do my best to assess his injuries, but my clumsy hands shake over his head and torso. Finally, I find the horror that took him down—a gaping hole through the center of his chest. A .38 special did not inflict this damage. “Hang in there, buddy.”
He gasps for breath and makes eye contact. His lips move, trying to speak.
“Quiet. I got you.” Sirens scream in the garage. “Hang in there, JoJo.” I don’t know what else to say.
“Knight?”
“He’s okay, not a scratch on—”
“No…listen.” He moans, his chest heaving up and down.
He’s in shock. Blue and red lights bounce off the walls, reflecting off the chrome bumpers of parked cars. A dozen pair of shoes gather around us.
“Stay strong, JoJo—”
“I’m not…not…JoJo. Ask Samantha—”
His final words, before he passes out, punch me in the gut. Who’s Samantha?