by Kashif Ross
Three
Overwhelming. That’s not a word I would normally choose to describe my eyes. Yet, the term seems accurate enough.
Unlike the rest of the world, I can’t plead ignorance after a robbery or murder occurs. When I was younger, I felt guilty when observing kids my age throw animals in microwaves. A sense of powerlessness crept in my veins as parents molested their children. Now, these things are more than natural. They’re expected.
The violence and destruction I only listened to in the past, now takes special trips to find me. I imagine that Ahmed isn’t the last of the trouble I’ll encounter this year.
The image of his white van projects clearly in my mind. The highway he’s zipping on has a beautiful backdrop of Griffith Park’s hills. The nearby river was built seven years ago by Dennis. It was meant to be private property for him to get away and relax, but so many people broke in that he opened it for the public. Now, he’s only able to enjoy it from his helicopter.
After driving two hundred miles an hour on a level two freeway, Ahmed exits Eighth Street too quickly and screams while navigating on two wheels. At the end of the ramp, the car smashes back on all four, and Ahmed zigzags through one-way streets until he reaches the Beijing Coliseum.
The building has rich history that dates back to the twentieth century, when America had primitive sports without the enhancement of much technology. During that time, a popular sport known as basketball was played in the stadium.
In the early 2000s, sports evolved with muscle technology referred to as steroids. Once scientists eliminated side effects from the drug, it aided human evolution, and more advanced technology was introduced, such as weighted balls and gear that provided players with enough support to reduce injuries.
Now, the Beijing Coliseum houses neonball, a sport that stemmed from both basketball and football. Armored players run down 100 yard fields with various terrains. Players score a goal by spiking a neonball into the opposing team’s hoop. Currently, Los Angeles’ team, the Smogmen, are practicing for their game against my favorite team, the Texas Borders.
I wait patiently to see why Ahmed stopped outside of the twelve-story building. He clutches his phone tightly. Leaving his car illegally parked, he rushes to the front door.
He crosses the street with several cars honking at him and approaches the entrance of the building. The doors are made of reinforced steel and painted purple and gold, the Smogmen’s team colors. Ahmed jogs up the ramp while cursing under his breath, but stops midway. His eyes widen as a loud explosion blasts the gigantic front doors and nearby walls away.
The incredible shock wave throws Ahmed back. The tubby man rolls down the ramp and into the street. Unfortunately, the driver of a red sports car smashes on his breaks to avoid colliding with the assassin.
Three men, dressed in all black sniper armor, dash out of the building. A final man exits seconds later, casually dragging a woman crying desperately for help at the top of her lungs. I doubt the older lady has ever experienced something so brutal as a business professional. She looks like a CEO or President of some very wealthy company.
Each man is dressed in sniper gear, a frightening technology that offers a stiff layer of protection. It weighs a ton, but feels like cotton. The largest man, I assume the leader, holds the woman’s neck tightly while saying, “I came here—on time, I should add—to get the funds you deposit into the money truck every morning at nine, and you’re telling me the one day I come to rob you, it’s not here?”
He holds a very barbaric weapon, known as a spruce, to her head. Spruces are like guns, but more simplistic. They are short, steel poles, generally no longer than a foot. They fire projectiles attached to long wires that wrap around their targets while stabbing them. Criminals use them for their brutality, but they’re meant for long-range hunting.
“We never have the money at nine.”
“What?”
“We never have it. I’m not supposed to say, but the money travels underground. The trucks are to deceive robbers.”
“Dammit.”
The masked man lets the woman go. She runs back into the debris, but once he hears the police sirens, the leader fires the spruce at her back. He clicks the trigger at the end, activating barcodes that reel her in. She wails loudly as she’s flung into the air.
He whips her body seventy yards away, onto a police officer’s window.
Two of his henchmen, completely indistinguishable in their suits, launch several grenades into traffic. As cars flip, screech, and halt, the leader starts an argument with the other criminals.
“Who the hell had the intel?” While turning his head to see all three men, Ahmed crosses his sight. The leader’s head follows Ahmed as he stands up and stumbles to find cover from the mayhem.
“Me,” says the last man to throw a grenade. “My girl works here. I guess they didn’t tell most employees—” he’s interrupted by the spruce shot into his chest.
“I’ll kill her tomorrow.”
The other man of same height and build howls, “That’s my brother!”
Releasing the spruce from the first man’s chest, the leader whips the wire until it wraps around the sibling’s neck. The sharpness of the wire is enough to end his pain quickly. His last teammate tries running away, but the leader removes a large ax with a seven foot handle.
He throws it at the man while chasing him down. It horrifically slices his victim in half.
He recovers the weapon and returns to Ahmed, who is still hiding in the middle of the street behind an overturned car with a woman and child completely unconscious inside.
“Ahmed, where’s your van?”
Closing his eyes, Ahmed folds his hands tightly and prays to The Writer.
The leader leans over and taps Ahmed with his ax. “Where the hell is your van?”
Frightened, Ahmed hops up and rushes to it. The duo shuffles into the vehicle and speed off while the police are still trying to recover from the bombs. They zoom past several cops without even one officer firing a shot.
“Tint the windows. I want to take off this stupid helmet.” As Ahmed complies, the man continues, “Whose idea was it to use sniper armor?” He pushes a button, and the suit camouflages itself inside the car. I actually can’t see him at all. “Great, I’m invisible, but it’s damn bulky.”
Ahmed waits for him to remove his helmet and says, “Monte, there’s a problem.”
My brother takes a deep breath while scrutinizing the round man. “You didn’t kill her?” Sirens follow, but the van’s faster than it looks.
“No. We got killed.” Ahmed giggles nervously. “Well, not me obviously, but my boys. My boys are—”
“Shut up. By who?”
“Some tall guy with a serious weapon. He was a big black guy. Really big. He was your height, but a little slimmer. But not too slim. Really big for the most part. Freakish power. You know Tyrone’s shield?”
“Yeah.”
“Cut through it, like butter. He was even faster than Ravi.”
“You begged me to bring those prissy Indian gods in for nothing.”
“Prissy?” Ahmed zooms around Grand Avenue and hops on the level three freeway where he blazes at two hundred and seventy miles per hour. “I told you not to kill Dustin. It took two men to replace his power. And the Hindu gods I came with could trump any Olympian.” Monte glares at him. “Except you. Obviously.”
“Obviously not. They lost to a guy with barcodes you haven’t mentioned yet.”
“None.”
“What the hell? Are you sure?”
“That’s my job. To know codes. He had none. Even when Carmen kissed him, she couldn’t find them. They would have automatically activated.”
“She kissed? Damn! He’s really going to give it to me now. Don’t you understand I have to go back with this information?” Ahmed shifts in his seat queasily and Monte notices. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it now,” Monte demands.
The wind he releases from his tattoos cracks all the windows inside the van. The surprising force causes Ahmed to swerve.
“He was blind. Kept his eyes closed.”
“Shit.” Monte rubs his temple. “You’re sloppy.”
“I’m sloppy? You kill everyone we work with.”
“Except you.”
Ahmed presses down on the gas as hard as he can. “But you’re going to kill me now, aren’t you?”
Monte slowly places his helmet back on. Leaning back in his seat, he coldly replies, “Yep.”
As sirens close in, Ahmed jerks the wheel into the freeway’s shoulder launching Monte and himself from the third level, nearly six hundred feet in the sky.