by J. T. Patten
Her mouth opened in shock at the mere suggestion. Mena glanced at Sebastian and then to Mojo.
Sebastian looked like he was holding in a smile, and then his hand passed over his mouth.
Mojo looked like he had just swallowed a cockroach.
“Don’t look at them.” Drake sizzled. “Look at me. This isn’t an HR complaint you get to make and a call for witnesses.”
“You have no right,” she accused, visibly offended and wallowing in her own growing anger.
“You have your rights and values. My rights and values are the mission. This isn’t about your ability to keep secrets by being here. It’s about breaking laws to keep the rule of law.”
“This”—she pointed to her head—“is about my religion.”
“If you work with me, you better be fucking ready to break covenants with God every damned day. If you can’t take off a hat, you’re going to shit your pants the first time we kick in a door and violate hundreds of civil rights protections and global human rights laws. Take it off, lady, or get the fuck out.”
Mena arose. Her breathing noticeably accelerated. She headed for the door without a sound. Then, “I’m not leaving because of what you said. You’re a stupid man playing vulgar games,” she hissed just over her breath.
“Sorry, lady, hated to tell you for the first time that people don’t really fight terrorists from the cubicles,” Drake called out. “They fucking shoot ’em in the head. They send targeting coordinates and blow them off the road. And during weddings. They slit their throats in the dead of the night. And they sure as all fuck don’t wear a headscarf on the streets of Chicago when they’re discreetly hunting down dudes looking to blow up the city and themselves just so they can get laid in heaven!” Drake taunted mercilessly. He was being cruel now but couldn’t stop.
Mena whipped around and stormed toward the men. Her hands and arms were a flurry of movement around her head. As she navigated around the table, she removed the dark fabric from her head and tossed it to the ground. Her jet-black hair dropped, draping eyes of hellfire.
Fuck. Wonder Woman’s coming at me.
In a flash, she dodged around Mojo and beelined to Woolf. Upon entering Drake’s personal space, she roared, “I’ve dealt with this bullshit—”
The Man from Orange grabbed her outstretched arms above the elbow, jerking Mena over the chairs and onto the table. His face was expressionless as he tossed her down onto the coffees, her legs flopping akimbo.
“Fuuuck,” Mojo muttered as more coffee exploded everywhere.
Mena was enraged and grunted as she flung her legs up toward Drake’s head.
He rocked his neck back just in time and pushed her arm closer to him up and away.
Her flailing legs flopped down hard away from him, crashing down on the table.
Mena flung her free right arm back toward Drake’s groin.
“Ameri-Do-Te” Mojo chuckled, his eyes wide at the spectacle.
Drake countered, pivoting his hips inward, slid his grip down to her wrist and gave it an inward twist. She was wily and agile for a bookworm who carried her diplomas in her purse. Surprisingly strong and had fire. Maybe she had taken a Tae Kwon Do class as a college elective or kickboxing when her Pilates class was canceled; Drake brooded in the moment but could not afford to let his guard down for even a moment.
She bent her elbow in and flopped onto her stomach, guided by the extreme joint pain and physical pressure of the fulcrum lock.
Drake’s hand was now on Mena’s, locking it askew. She kicked at the table, grumbling.
Sebastian slammed his hand on the table. “Warren Woolf! That will be all for now.”
The MI6 man still looked more amused than agitated despite just outing Drake.
The Man from Orange jerked his head up, sending a flaming look to Sebastian. “If that’s how the British do OPSEC, no wonder you get owned.”
Sebastian winced at his revealing mistake caused by the heat of the moment. To Drake, Sebastian was trying to draw out the alpha in all of the team members. Or at least Drake and Mena. This wasn’t a meeting. This was selection. Staged. Exactly who was being selected was the bigger question.
Drake scanned the people in the room. There was absolutely nothing stopping him from killing every one of them and then just stepping away from it all. He contemplated that for a moment. The head voices were saying nothing. The delusions were all aligned and in favor of him wiping out the room. Even the sounds of his father were quieted. Maybe all it took to quiet the voices was to fully succumb to their desires.
Drake leaned in to Mena’s ear. “I have nothing against you, miss. You’re not trained, and you will die in the field. That could get me killed in the field. And if we die, more people will die.”
Drake released her arm and stepped back. “You don’t get to come for a ride-along, because people discriminate against you because you’re Muslim, or a woman, or some other human resources social bullshit,” he lectured. Calm now. The rage was at a simmer. He couldn’t believe how calm the voices were. The meds might be working. He never attributed the growing uncontrollable rage to them.
“Harsh,” Mojo quipped, amused.
“You either, dude,” Drake snapped, pissed at the glib remark. “Have you ever seen combat? Have you ever been in a fucking war zone?”
Mojo shook his head, flummoxed. “I mean. I…”
“You what?” Drake stepped toward Mojo, who scooted his chair back, ready to make a break for it. “What the fuck have you done?”
“I…nothing really. I can shoot.”
“Shoot? You’ve killed someone?” Drake stopped. His brows raised and head tilted, waiting for the answer of the century.
“Not. Not a real—”
“A paper target? A zombie. Don’t you dare fucking say a video game. Don’t you fucking say that for one second.”
Mojo’s head cowed, looking up over dropped shoulders to the alpha before him. “Bro, I never said I wanted to go. I’m cool just doing my thing.” He glanced to Sebastian, who was busy wiping coffee splatter off his suit jacket. “Dude, get the fuck away from me. You made your point. We’re just here to help.”
Drake ran his trembling fingers through his still-damp hair. He walked around Mojo, who swiveled slowly, unaware of what this nutjob would do next.
The headscarf lay on the ground in a delicate little heap. It was a religious adornment that triggered a recollection to Woolf of a lover’s teddy tossed on the bedroom floor. A sight he hadn’t seen for nearly a decade. Even then, it had only lasted a week. Drake picked up the hijab, sorting the fringed ends and letting them drop as he gingerly held the middle of the fabric to let the cloth flatten. He folded the ends up, squaring the satin hijab shawl, and placed it on a dry spot on the table before turning his back to the team, never making eye contact.
Without a word, Drake Woolf walked out the door.
Chapter 19
Mena first looked at Sebastian. With a slow nod, she chased after Drake.
Sebastian shouted for her to just let him go. This Drake heard as he was taking his last step down from the stairs, and the door opened and then slammed against the brick wall.
The shout and slam startled Drake from his circling thoughts. He winced because the loud slam surprised him so badly, causing an instant, indescribable rush of fear that washed over him. His eyes were already pooled with remorse and self-doubt, and he turned away to hide his vulnerability. “You don’t want round two, lady,” he said without turning back.
“Things got out of hand.” She quick-stepped down the concrete. “I want to talk.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Drake cut the corner, evading her. “We’re done. I’m not apologizing.”
“Then I’m going on my own.”
“Good luck with that.”
Drake had no car, no home, no family
or friends, so as he walked off, he realized he really had no place to go. It didn’t matter. He just needed an escape. For the first time in his life, Drake wished the voices were there to drown her out.
“I know General Shirazian and have studied General Soleimani’s strategies and movements. I know what they can do.”
Drake quickened his steps. Of course you do. Another analyst who thinks they can profile from CNN reports and Time magazine articles.
“He’s going to use children. That’s what he does.”
Drake stopped. Maybe it was the dream he had.
“Young boys and girls.”
Now you’ve got my attention.
This Mena knew.
She was in.
Chapter 20
The Chicago Lawndale Christian Church of God “community outreach” bus revved in the weed-filled, deserted parking lot. Oswald Robinson adjusted his tie impatiently in the driver’s mirror. He flipped his eyes up to the mirror and counted the children behind him. His girlfriend, Shawnay, caught his glance. She smiled, exposing her meth-mouthed cavern of decay that was chomping on a piece of gum before swatting the boy to her right. Girl had switched to other junk, but there was no saving those rotting choppers.
“Quit yo fidgetin’, Dantrell.” Shawnay threatened across the aisle, “I’ll smack your ass you do it again.”
“Keep your hand off me, bitch! You ain’t my mamma,” the young boy reminded.
“No, I ain’t no whore like your mamma.” Shawnay stood up and hammered down on the boy.
He ducked into the green pleather seat. The blow glanced off his shoulder. His head popped up with a gapped grin of a nine-year-old. “Missed, bitch.” The grin quickly faded as Dantrell saw a different open palm swinging down. The force and pain of the sting dropped the young boy from his seat to the filthy, gum-stuck floor.
“You mind your mouth, boy,” Oswald shouted, towering from above. His hand cocked back for round two.
Shawnay started to pile on additional scolding to the boy when she, too, was met with a sharp slap, sending her purple gum flying out of her mouth and onto the floor. Her body collapsed into the green seat as she cursed. Her own hand went to her stinging cheek as she looked at the small boy still doing the same.
“You can just shut the fuck up, too.” Oswald gave a smile and a nod to the other kids as he walked back to the front. “Zarielle, Kayjon bothering you?”
“No, Mr. Oz. He just talkin’ some shit. But he aight,” confirmed the eight-year-old girl with her hair in looped braids and pink ribbons.
Her seatmate, Kayjon, shrunk down in the seat, leery of a whack.
Oz leaned over the seat and pulled at Zarielle’s shirt sleeve to cover a burn across her wrist. “Cover that up, girl. You playin’ too hard in the school yard. White folk don’t wanna buy candy from no skeezer with cuts an’ shit.”
Two more boys entered the bus. Each held large cardboard boxes with smaller boxes within, visible from the opened top flaps.
“Got the candy, Oz,” confirmed one older boy, maybe eleven years old. He wore a maroon Lawndale Athletics football jersey with gold piping and letters.
The boy behind him, approximately the same age, announced, “Yo, Oz, Two-bags is outside. He wanna talk.”
“Two-bags, huh?” Oswald’s face dropped as if it was met with one of his own jaw-rattling slaps. “He say what he want? He didn’t say nothin’ about the money, huh?”
“No, Oz. He just say to get muthafuckin’ Oz ass out there and shit. But he don’t seem pissed or nothin’. He just bein’ all Two-bags.”
Oz ducked to spy through the bus windows.
The white BMW 7 Series with white rims was sure enough there, its luxury a contrast to the deteriorated backdrop of shuttered, condemned, or abandoned buildings. Full block-out tinted windows were rolled up save for the passenger side that was cracked about four inches down.
Vagrants and junkies kept their distance and their eyes straight ahead and away from the car. Nobody was up for getting near Two-bags now that he was calling the shots in Lawndale. He had piled plenty of bodies to climb to the top.
“All right. All right. All good. We all good.” Oz rubbed his ear. “Okay. Y’all just be chill. I’ll be back, and then we head out and make some money. Hear me? We runnin’ late, so we just do Oak Park neighborhoods. Make our dime there on the west side. Aight?”
Any kid paying attention just shrugged and kept their trap shut.
Oswald exited the yellow-orange bus with blue-and-white lettering over old-school script. The candy-man readjusted his tie again as he swaggered over to the neighborhood tough’s car.
Two-bags ran everything now like his Chicago mafioso predecessors ran the city in the thirties. As a street-gangster leader, he took profits from the candy gangs like Oswald’s, as well as running drugs and weapons in this part of Lawndale and its touchpoint neighborhoods. In a matter of two short years, he had united the local gangs: Four Corner Hustlers, New Breeds, Black Souls, and Gangster Disciples to off-seat the Vice Lords, and established the Lawndale Legends. To that end, he was king of these blighted streets.
As Oz approached the big boss, he wondered who would come to his own funeral if Two-bags and his crew opened up on him in the next seconds.
The windows lowered further. The driver two-hand-steadied a large silver pistol pointed right at Oswald.
“Hey, hey. N-no need to put th-that squeezer up in my grill, you know what I’m s-sayin’,” Oswald stammered with a broken voice.
Two-bags blew out a haze of smoke from behind the driver.
“There he is. That’s the man, Two-bags. Good morning to you, sir. Good morning. Hallowed ground I’m walking on heeya.” Oswald gave a slight bow.
Two-bags extended a fist bump from the window to Oswald. “Oz the Wizard.” He laughed. “The candy-man can, right?”
“Ha-ha,” Oz chuckled nervously. “That’s right. The Wizard making candy magic for you. Fixin’ to make more here in a few. Got a new crew today and have three more runnin’ later. Here to make you some Benjamins with the young Gs while I learn them respect.”
“Shiit. You think I give a fuck about your chocolate bar hustle?”
Oz still couldn’t see Two-bags’s face in the shadow and smoke.
“Yeah, man. I know you makin’ the large coin. Cuz you the man’s man. I know you got your fingers in a lot. A lot!”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Okay. Okay. Shuttin’ up. All shut.”
“How many busses you got?”
“Busses? I got one. I make a drop. Come back, get my next load. Drop them. Get the next.”
“You got four crews? How many dat?”
“Well, they don’t always show, know what I’m sayin’. Sometimes more, sometimes less.”
Another silver handgun emerged from the window. This time through the smoke and on the ring-adorned hand of Two-bags. “How many?”
“I get about eighty kids on a good day. Can get about a hundred if cops do a sweep an’ push the young-uns from the corners.”
The gun retracted and was replaced by another of Two-bags’s ring-adorned hands. A diamond and gold watch or bracelet dangled behind three stacks of outstretched cash. “Buy me three more busses. Get them from churches. Give them this cash and say Two-bags wants them to get a new bus and give theirs to you. Have them ask their congregation who can drive a bus on a day I say.”
“Ho, ho. Two-bags. You too generous. That’s a big operation. I can’t—”
“It’s for another job. All you need to do is get the busses. Park them here in this lot. Make sure no one fucks with them. Get security. I want a hundred kids ready to go this Sunday.”
“Sunday? This comin’ up Sunday? That’s St. Patrick’s Day. No one’s gonna be around to want candy with all the parades and parties. Why you want—”
The gun re-emerged. “Take the motherfucking money. Do what I fuckin’ say, and you get paid. Feel me? You gotta be point man. Can’t miss a beat, and you can’t be off your square. I got bi’ness meetings an’ shit. People tryin’ to get the ups on me when I all motherfuckin’ generous an’ shit.”
Oswald looked around the area and took the cash, stuffing it into his suit jacket pockets. “I gotchu. All good. Two ears for listening. One mouth for talking. And I’m shuttin’ the talker.” Oz stretched his neck and chin to show his closed lips.
“And this.” Two-bags held out a ZTE prepaid flip phone. “I will call you. If there are problems, you call me. But we ain’t gonna has no problems. Or you gots the problem. This is a direct line to me, and I’ll kill you, your family, and all those kids if you lose this phone or make any calls with it to anyone but me. But you ain’t gonna call me, because no problems.”
Oz took the phone. “See,” he insisted. “Still not talkin’. But I do hear you loud and clear.” Oz pulled a finger across his lips like a zipper and dialed Two-bags’s number.
When it rang, Two-bags’s eyes about popped out from his head. “Is you a dumb motherfucker or what?”
“Just showin’ you it works. And I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. All good with a roger 10-4, good buddy.”
The slight geolocation device separation as Two-bags handed the phone to Oz was captured by the NSA satellite relay through Co-Traveler Analytics. The 4G LTE Tracfone data set had been last tracked in Caracas a week ago until it was turned on again this very morning upon leaving the Consulate General of Venezuela in Chicago’s Civic Opera building. The raw data was sent as an alert to Mojo Singh’s desk, among others in the building, but only Mojo would actually look through it proactively and set the attributes on his monitoring sessions.