For a few miles, we stayed close to the trees, away from the main road, and kept a steady pace until we reached the other end of Griffith Park and entered Atwater Village. Once we reached the residential neighborhoods the crowds thinned out. It seemed most of those who stayed behind figured the power outage would be fixed soon — if they only knew how much worse it might become.
Beneath a full moon, the early morning hours turned chilly as we left Atwater Village and cut through Silver Lake. Every thirty minutes we took a five-minute break. Dax was determined to keep up, but his leg was a hindrance. Resting along Glendale Boulevard, the street was lined with darkened apartments and homes.
“It’s like a ghost town here.” Dax stretched his leg against the curb. “You think any of them know we’re here to save the day?”
“We’re not superheroes, Dax.” I noticed the soft glow in a few windows. Flashlights. Candles. “It’s a suicide mission trying to stop Tama and Kasim.”
“Bro, don’t be talking that way.” Dax hit me with the cane. “This is the fourth quarter, and we’re down by twenty with five minutes to go. It’s time to go to work. If you’re not going to take the last shot, then take your ball and go home.”
Dax left me standing on the corner of Glendale and Fletcher. I knew what he meant. He was right. Why else were we here? To think Bouchard left this in my hands was insane — absolute craziness. A chill raised the hair on my arms and neck, knowing Bouchard would only wait so long before he acted with greater force. However this ended, Dax and I would either be heroes, scapegoats, or six feet under.
Night faded into daybreak.
An endless sea of vehicles stretched out before us, left abandoned in the streets. It was the world’s largest used-car dealership, except none of these were for sale. We passed auto body shops, diners, grocery stores, gas stations, duplexes, loft apartments, and homes. People were even huddled around fires in parking lots and front yards. Walking the streets, it seemed peaceful yet disturbing.
Dax waved at a few people sitting outside bundled up from the cold. If they only knew the standoff that gripped a nation. For now, they were in a bubble, cut off from sound-bite news and a fear that America might never be the same. Ignoring the curious stares, we pushed the pace. As the miles wore on, Dax’s leg hampered his stride as we neared the two-hour mark. For a while we each trudged forward without saying a word, lost in our own thoughts.
Sunrise rose above Echo Park, casting an ominous glow over the downtown skyline. It was like a magic trick. The brighter the light, the more the city came alive. Taking another break, we sat on a bench overlooking the lake. I stretched my aching muscles while Dax tended to his swelling knee. It’d been one hell of a night.
With his cane, Dax pointed towards the street. My jaw dropped as thousands of people emerged from beneath the 101 Freeway overpass. Countless more than what we’d seen so far. Young. Old. Children. Babies in strollers. We watched in silence as they walked past, seemingly dazed and confused. Neither of us had the courage to tell them what they faced ahead — an invisible wall to keep them in.
Six miles down. Two to go.
SEVENTY-FOUR
YOUR BROTHER IS DEAD.
Tama stared at the words on the computer screen long after Kasim locked the hostages back inside the offices. The message on the dark web from the Prodigal left her shocked and numb. Was it true, or a misdirect? An answer lingered between the letters. Whoever the Prodigal was, he was not an ally. But Tama had the intelligence he wanted and intended to bargain for something of equal value in return.
Being with her brother, Abu, was a reminder of the cause — but it was also the realization they were pawns in the Prodigal’s game. A sting of betrayal unleashed revenge — which wouldn’t end until the Prodigal breathed his last breath. She hoped the message was nothing more than a ploy to ensure she finished what was started, but deep down her instincts edged closer to a cliff.
The malware was more streamlined than she expected, downloading the FBI, CIA, Homeland, and Pentagon intelligence faster than the forty-eight-hour window.
Spending time in front of her computer, Tama scanned highly classified documents searching for any reference to the Prodigal. Her anger intensified each time she saw the name referenced to her brother. She had access to all of the intelligence, and yet there was nothing that led to the hidden government official or the Red Venture Group. Once the downloading was complete, the second phase would be set in motion.
Tama’s voice was steady as she turned to Kasim. “Bring him to me.”
A few clicks of the mouse and the feed broadcasted live on the internet, leaving the world watching the empty black site hub. Kasim returned with the hostage who was still zip-tied and hooded, keeping the barrel of the gun pressed firmly against the back of the hostage’s skull.
Tama leaned in closer to the hostage. “One move, and you die.”
Standing off camera, she pulled a mask over her face, leaving only her eyes exposed. Years lurking amidst her enemy as Yasmin Avakian, unknowingly at the hands of the Prodigal, left her clenching her fists as she stepped into the frame.
“President Bouchard is a coward.” Tama glared into the lens with disdain. “America, his weakness will be your undoing.” She pointed the camera toward the hostage. “Special Agent Laney Kelley, you have thirty seconds.”
At the mention of Kelley’s name, the hostage fought with fury. Kasim slammed the butt of his weapon against the prisoner’s skull, leaving him dazed. As the hostage’s legs buckled, Kasim yanked him to his feet, then smirked at the camera without a hood to hide his face. He was Tama’s lover, fighter, and assassin — unafraid for the world to see him.
A phone rang out in the hub. Years earlier, a hard line was installed but forgotten by most who worked inside the black site. Tama anticipated this moment and had tuned the frequency to match the electro-disruptor — leaving it operational.
As she answered, Tama relished the control. “No names. No demands. No hostages. Those are the rules. Disobey and they all die.”
Laney’s voice cut into the live feed. “Understood.”
“Agent Kelley, lie to me and you pull the trigger.”
Tama turned towards the hostage and yanked off the hood. A shadow loomed over Russell Vaughn’s bloodied face. Eyes swollen. Mouth duct-taped. Kasim did his work on the Bureau’s veteran — inflicting greater pain than what he endured during the interrogations.
“Let’s begin,” Tama said coldly. “Who is the Prodigal?”
Laney replied, deadpan. “I don’t know.”
Tama listened for the slightest inflection. Working alongside Laney for two years, she knew her habits, tendencies, and tells. Long before Vaughn, she suspected Laney had fallen for Chase Hardeman.
“Is Abu Haji Fatima alive?” A split second of silence was worse than a lie. It was Laney’s tell — deciding which truth would get her what she wanted. “Life for a life.”
“Wait!” Laney pleaded.
Every second was captured on the live feed. Tama turned toward Kasim, who was waiting for her to cue him. She ignored Laney’s attempts to slow the moment down.
Veins popped from Vaughn’s neck. Eyes bulged. Crimson face. His pleas muted by duct-tape. He was going to fight to the end — it’s who he’d always been.
Tama grabbed the forty-five from Kasim, keeping the barrel pressed against the side of Vaughn’s skull. She didn’t need Kasim to pull the trigger — she was a killer too. Holding up her cell, she showed the world as seconds ticked down.
“America, you are out of time.”
As the gunshot rang out, glass vibrated and walls echoed before the live feed cut out. With a single bullet, one of the Bureau’s most decorated agents was gone.
SEVENTY-FIVE
“Oh my God…”
In shock, Laney’s eyes welled up with tears, never hearing Agent Davidson as the ringing in her ears intensified. Davidson grabbed Laney’s shoulder, but she jerked away before storming out of the comm
and center, distraught.
With remnants of tear gas drifting in the air, she struggled to catch her breath and started hyperventilating. Woozy. Gutted. Weak. Bracing her hands against her thighs, she leaned forward and vomited, then cursed under her breath before unleashing an agonizing scream from the depths of her soul.
“Agent Kelley?”
Startled by the voice, she wiped the vomit from her lips and looked up to see Mayor Osoria standing there. With her sleeves she brushed tears from her cheeks and tried to compose herself, embarrassed and broken.
Davidson stepped out from mobile command and walked briskly toward them, ready to intervene. “Mayor Osoria, I’m Special Agent Davidson.”
Osoria’s eyes never left Laney. “Davidson, you’re in charge?”
“Yessir.” Davidson handed Laney a bottle of water. “How can I help?”
“Begin by explaining why you’re deploying tear gas on our citizens?”
“We issued a command, however, there were those who disobeyed. We don’t want our suspects slipping through the barricade, which means no one crosses until the situation is contained.”
Osoria held up his cell. “Does it look like they’re trying to slip through?”
“Following orders.” Davidson defended herself. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Do we even know who the suspects are? Or what they want from us?”
“We do not know their identities,” Davidson admitted. “But we are confident they are holding the hostages at a federal site downtown.”
“Less than five minutes ago, President Bouchard ordered me to do nothing.” Osoria crossed his arms. “But you’re telling me you know where they are?”
“I’ve been told to guard the barricade and do the same.”
“She called you by name.” Osoria eyed Laney curiously. “I’m guessing you’ve got an idea who we’re dealing with, so what do you think we should do?”
Laney stood upright, knowing she couldn’t stay silent any longer. “Let everyone through. Evacuate as much of the six-mile radius as possible, secure the area, then respond downtown with every law enforcement officer you’ve got.”
“Laney,” Davidson interrupted, “this isn’t your call.”
“No, it’s not her call.” Osoria’s frustration boiled over. “It’s mine.”
Davidson warned, “With all due respect…”
“We’re dealing with terrorists,” Laney argued. “Forget protocol.”
“I’m not going to stand by and watch my city burn.” Osoria waved at an LAPD officer who stood nearby. “Gather all personnel immediately.” The officer acknowledged his instructions, then disappeared. Osoria turned back to Laney, his frustration dissolved into determination. “Agent Kelley, lead the way.”
Laney lost sight of Chase and Dax, unsure of whether they made it through the barricade, or where they might be in that moment. She’d lost her mentor, a friend, forever. There was no other choice but to be the last one standing.
“Bouchard won’t be handing out any medals,” Laney said to Davidson. “If he catches word of this, those involved will be on the chopping block.”
“I’ve got a full pension,” Davidson mused as she stepped aside. “I’ll do more good here, so you give ‘em hell.”
Laney followed Mayor Osoria as they gathered with LAPD officers away from the frontlines. Since the tear gas deployment, the strong response managed to regain control of the barricade. First responders were already onsite when the chaos erupted, so they tended to the civilians who were injured. News reporters were moved another mile up the road, further away from the scene. Hundreds of officers gathered together as Mayor Osoria was handed a bullhorn.
“Moments ago, Special Agent Russell Vaughn of the FBI was assassinated by a terrorist in our city.” As everyone stood in silence, Osoria allowed the weight of his words to define the moment. “We are under siege, and yet President Bouchard has ordered me to leave it up to the federal government to intervene.” His voice grew louder and sharper as he glanced at the top brass of the LAPD who stood beside him. “I will not stand by and allow one more person to die. So, I am breaking ranks with Washington, and I am asking if you will do the same.”
Laney knew by not responding to Tama’s demands, whatever they might be, Bouchard was attempting to protect his political future, as well as the secrecy of the Red Venture Group. Standing before these men and women — a melting pot of humanity — flooded her with a sense of patriotism, independence, freedom, and comradery where politics was powerless.
Mayor Osoria handed her the megaphone and stepped back.
“My name is Laney Kelley,” she said into the megaphone. “Agent Vaughn was not only a mentor, he was a friend. So I stand before you as an American first and a special agent of the FBI second.” Laney paced back and forth in front of the officers. “Mayor Osoria is right, we are under attack, and this will not end until we stop these terrorists — Tama Fatima and Akram Kasim.”
She had spoken the names aloud, knowing the repercussions from Bouchard could mean a congressional hearing and federal prison.
“First, we will allow the National Guard to protect the barricades. However, citizens must be allowed through in an orderly manner. Second, we must secure the neighborhoods within the blackout area. Third, we must go into downtown and stop these terrorists from killing any more of our brothers and sisters.” A lump lodged in her throat, but she pressed on. “Understand, we will be disobeying the President’s orders by doing this. So, I’m asking you, who is willing to go with me?”
As one unit, every officer stepped forward.
SEVENTY-SIX
HIPPIE KITCHEN — MORNING
A few blocks from Skid Row’s shantytown, a long line stretched down the street alongside abandoned cars, SUVs, company vans, delivery trucks, and metro buses. On most days, downtown hustled and bustled as the epicenter of LA, but on the morning after it was eerily subdued. Slowly people had emerged from office buildings and lofts — some looked disheveled beneath the lingering clouds — and joined the homeless who waited in line.
Volunteers stranded at the Hippie Kitchen handed out bottled water and bagels while people inched forward in a line that stretched two city blocks. It struck me how everyone was treated equally. Status, notoriety, money, or pedigree meant nothing when standing next to a stranger whose heart beat with the same rhythm. A treasured truth revealed by each volunteer who served with compassion, mercy, and love instead of self-absorbed obsessions.
Banking this moment of truth, I checked my cell.
“Still no power — which means no cell service or internet either.”
“A millennial’s worst nightmare,” Dax bantered. “Looks like we’re the only ones who know about the apocalypse.”
Dax and I had watched thousands headed away from downtown, but seeing the number of people still here was shocking. I imagined the masses gathered at the other barricades across the city and pictured the one thing they all had in common — confusion. Some probably wondered why no one came to find them, while others questioned why the city was unable to turn the power back on.
“If they saw what we saw at Griffith Park,” Dax said, poking his cane into the concrete, “they’d be more concerned with survival than breakfast.”
“No way they could’ve smuggled the electro-disruptor into the black site, so that leaves the epicenter of the outage somewhere nearby.” I walked down the line searching for a sliver of hope. “Which means we’ll find it in either one of these buildings or a larger vehicle in the neighborhood.”
“That narrows it down.” Dax pointed his cane down the street toward miles of abandoned vehicles. “Should we ask for volunteers?”
“When did you turn from Denzel to Hart?”
“Since I dragged my ass eight miles.” He winced as he limped alongside, poking his cane into the puddles. “Please tell me we’re here for more than water and bagels.”
My eyes darted between faces. “Have faith, Dax.”
> Nearing the middle of the line, her grayish eyes locked on me. Bundled up with more layers than the last time, there was no doubt once she smiled with her missing teeth.
Returning the smile, I walked over. “Margaret, do you remember me?”
“Damn fool,” she chuckled.
“You don’t know how right you are,” Dax interrupted.
I asked, “Do you think you could help me out again?”
“Don’t want to miss breakfast. What I gotta do?”
“Dax, save her place in line.” His head tilted sideways, confused, but he did what I asked.
Motioning her away from the line, I pulled a fifty-dollar bill from my pocket and waited until she shuffled over before handing it to her. “Margaret, I’m looking for somebody.”
“Ms. Laney?”
“No, someone else. Do you remember the night you saw us?”
“You were hiding across the street from your place.”
“That’s right… from the garage.” I pulled photos from my back pocket. “Margaret, I need to know if you’ve ever seen the people we were hiding from.” I showed her the first one — Akram Kasim. “Do you recognize him?”
“Nope.” Her eyes shifted toward Dax as she pointed. “He was there.”
“That’s right.” I glanced at Dax, then turned back to her. “How about him?”
She grabbed the next photo and stared at it hard. “Uh-huh, he left in a hurry.”
My heart pounded. Abu Haji Fatima was there.
“Have you seen him in the last few days?”
“Nope.” She glanced at Dax again. More antsy. “Is that it?”
“There’s one more.” Handing her the last photo — Tama Fatima — hitting on fourteen, praying for Blackjack. “What about her?”
“Nope.” Her grayish eyes turned crystal clear. “They killed that boy?”
Right away I knew she was talking about Sleepy. “Margaret, tell you what, keep the photo and show it to all your friends. I’ll come and find you in a few hours outside the garage.”
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