Spying While Black

by Oliver Willis

  Despite the missile’s destructive power, he is making sure that the explosion takes out as much ground as possible, without the chance of civilians being protected by any of the structure.

  Ignoring the dashboard, Marks leans in against the wheel. She aims the front end of the Corvette at the back of the van. This will add to the vehicle repair costs significantly.

  ***

  Chet begins to tap his brakes and turn the van to the right. He intends to launch the missile directly at the opening in the stadium. He can hear the crowd. He is excited to hear the screams soon to follow. There is the distinct possibility that setting off the blast this close to the target will injure or kill him. He does not care. The mission is the most important thing.

  He comes to a complete stop. He lifts himself out of the seat and starts to move back in the van toward the control panel. He quickly glances up at the stadium and wishes he could see just one face, a black or brown one or those who betray their own white race, in the seconds before they are vaporized.

  Chet is envious that he will not be around to experience the purity of the territory he intends to attack. For a shining moment, the slate will be wiped clean. It is, he hopes, the first of many to follow.

  But.

  He loses his footing as the van begins to shake. He hears the sound of the impact at the same time. The vehicle slides several feet and the missile tilts in an awkward manner. Chet reaches out for something to grab on to, so he can stabilize his fall, but he fails and drops to the ground of the van.

  Outside, Marks’ Corvette crumples as the front-end slams into the back of the van. Her airbag deploys, and the thick balloon quickly expands and smacks against her nose. She feels pain in her shoulder and neck as her outstretched arms hold the steering wheel in a futile attempt to brace for the impact.

  No time.

  She opens the door and draws her Sig Sauer. She pulls the slide on top backwards and a bullet moves into the chamber. She is ready to fire at the first sign on life she sees inside the van no matter what.

  Through the open van doors, she can see the missile, now completely uncovered after the accident. Immediately she spots the two corpses on the floor, lying like pieces of discarded meat.

  There.

  The man looks like a soldier. He is wild-eyed and sneering. He leans against the missile, pulling himself up. He looks up.

  Chet sees the black woman, gun drawn, staring at him. He knows right away she caused the accident. Her stance with the weapon screams military or law enforcement.

  He feels a surge of adrenalin. He has come so far. He has sacrificed so much. How could he let her stop him, inches away from success?

  The position of the vehicle or the missile no longer matters. It is armed. If fired, thousands of lives will be lost. This is no longer about getting the shot just right or perfect positioning.

  It is all or nothing.

  He lunges forward to the touch screen. He can see the green button marked “launch.”

  Just a single contact is needed with a finger. Just touch the flesh and the missile is on its way, as simple as making a phone call.

  Marks fires. She aims for the biggest mass of his body. Precision isn’t needed. This isn’t the cop just doing his job. This is the threat at his most dangerous. She just has to put him down.

  The bullets land on Chet’s torso.

  Marks squeezes her trigger. Up, then down. Up then down. The first shot gives the most resistance, then the ensuing squeezes require considerably less force. The gun vibrates with each firing.

  She keeps shooting until the fourteen bullets left in the chamber are spent.

  Chet is thrown back from the impact of the projectile against his chest. It feels like his torso is going to explode as the other bullets follow suit. His hand remains outstretched, now hopelessly far away from the control panel.

  He careens into the driver’s seat and puts his hands against his chest. He feels the blood as it makes everything slick.

  He tries to speak but cannot.

  Everything goes black as his life leaves him.

  From behind her, Marks suddenly hears the crowd roar as the Nationals’ third baseman hits a home run.

  Epilogue

  Somewhere In Europe

  Gorman Blanc has demanded to be left alone. He has not heard a word from any of his Washington operatives and there is no news about an attack on Nationals Park. Clearly everything has failed.

  He has ordered a clean-up, and the trail of evidence from his operation to the two soldiers and the mercenary are being scrubbed.

  Not only have his plans been reduced to ash, but he knows who was behind disrupting them. He can still see Deena Marks’ face, pursuing him as he escaped.

  It isn’t bad enough that he did not succeed, but it was one of … them who defeated him.

  He and his network will have to go underground for a while. The authorities are on to them. Deena Marks is out there in the world, making things much more difficult for him and people like him.

  George Washington University Hospital, Washington, D.C.

  The cop closes his eyes for a minute, listening to the judge show on the TV in the hospital room. He is trying to relax. His hand still feels weird from where the bullet grazed him, even under all the gauze.

  A slight knock at the door and one of the techs walks in. She is a middle-aged black woman with a warm smile. She is carrying a large arrangement in a decorative basket. As she gets closer to the bed, the cop realizes the arrangement are fruits, cut up and laid out artistically.

  “You got a gift,” the nurse says, “has a card too.”

  He nods and smiles as she puts the basket down on the tray next to his bed then hands him a 3”x5” card.

  “Sorry about your hand, a friend,” it reads.

  The cop thinks about the woman who shot at him and threw his partner down and how she said she was “on the job,” and how the department brass seemed weirdly disinterested in pursuing the case.

  He hates working in a city with so many oddballs around.

  Radisson Hotel, Washington, D.C.

  Betty Ebersol rubs lotion on her skin in a futile attempt to alleviate the sunburn she got running around to those stupid museums. Her husband and kids are asleep on the other bed in their hotel room, tired from all the walking around.

  Her cell phone rings and it is her brother. They exchange a few pleasantries and she complains about being dragged around on her trip.

  “Weirdest thing,” he says, “when we left the ballgame there was all this commotion outside.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, some guy was firing a gun, made a bomb threat or something.”

  “Oh wow, that’s crazy.”

  “Yeah, luckily the cops took care of it. We didn’t even hear anything during the game.”

  “Thank God. You never know in this town. I saw some suspicious lady, she was black by the way, up at the Capitol today. She even fought off the cops. I hope they caught her.”

  “Wow, insane. You never know, sis.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The End. For Now.

  Omega Division, Deena, and Renegade are on the front lines of America’s war against evil.

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