Stealth Attack

by John Gilstrap

  “That’s brilliant!” Ciara declared. She popped up to a sitting position and planted a kiss on Roman’s cheek, following it with a big hug.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  “That’ll piss Pizza Face off,” she said. “Meet at the gate?” She stood.

  He stood, too. “Sure. Five minutes?”

  Ciara reached out and twisted his nipple. He yelped and covered them up.

  “Don’t keep me waiting,” she said.

  Holy shit, what was happening? Could this even be happening? To him? Holy, holy shit.

  As Roman walked toward the crumbling locker room—essentially a pole barn with a half wall and a moldy gang shower with corroded heads—Zit Face never took his eyes off of him. It was a scary glare, but Mr. Jonathan and his ginormous friend Mr. Boxers had told him thousands of times that you never let yourself be stared down by a bully. It might trigger a fight, and you might lose that fight, but at least you’ll lose it with honor.

  Mr. Jonathan was funny about honor. In his world, nothing was more important.

  When Ciara had thought up this escape, she’d thought of pretty much everything. She’d warned him to put a bathing suit and a towel in his backpack, and she’d even brought the five-dollar locker rental fee for him. Five bucks for a dented school locker seemed outrageous, but everything about this shithole was outrageous.

  Holy shit, Ciara Kelly pinched my nipple!

  Roman used the rusty key to open the rusty lock to reveal his blue backpack. He wrapped his towel around his waist for modesty, stepped out of his bathing suit, then into his underwear and shorts. The Washington Nationals T-shirt came next, and he was ready to go. He wrapped the damp suit in his towel, then shoved it all into his backpack and zipped it up. He didn’t need anything close to the agreed-upon five minutes.

  When he stepped out of the locker room, Zit Face called, “Hey, kid.”

  Something tightened in Roman’s stomach. “Yeah?”

  “Come over here.”

  “Kiss my ass.” More advice from Mr. Jonathan: go big or go home.

  “Be happy to,” Zit Face said. “Bring it on over here.”

  “I don’t want your leprosy face infecting my butt,” Roman said. He knew he was crossing a line here. It was Mr. Boxers who’d warned him not to let his mouth write checks that his ass couldn’t cash.

  He didn’t want this to escalate to a real fight, so he turned his back on Zit Face and walked toward the sidewalk.

  “That’s it, pussy,” Zitface said. “Walk away.”

  Roman turned and took a step closer. “What is your problem?”

  “You are my problem. You and that girlfriend of yours. You don’t belong together. That’s my problem.”

  Roman forced a laugh. “Oh, well, if you don’t approve, I guess we’ll just have to break up.” Bold talk for a guy who didn’t know until a few minutes ago that he was in a relationship.

  “How about I kick your ass instead of kissing it?” Time to double down. Roman threw his head back and forced a loud laugh before turning back to the sidewalk. By then, Ciara had cleared the ladies’ locker room. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Keep moving,” Roman said.

  “The ticket guy?”

  “We got into it a little. I don’t want it to go to a fight. This is his turf.”

  Ciara laughed and hip-checked him. “Did you say turf? Like some gang thing?”

  Now he felt stupid.

  “Do you actually know how to fight?”

  He had a black belt in karate, but he didn’t talk about it much. First of all, there were a gajillion levels of black belt above his, and sparring wasn’t really fighting. “Can’t you see how everybody cowers in fear when they see me?”

  As they walked to the curb and Ciara pulled her phone out of the little bag that Roman supposed she called a purse, a gray BMW SUV approached from their left and slowed.

  “Did you call RoadRunner already?” Roman asked.

  “No, not yet. Do you think the zitty kid called the cops?”

  “Awfully nice car for cops. Besides, it’s too soon.”

  Another car, this one a black sedan, turned toward them from the intersection ahead of them and stopped before reaching them.

  “Let’s walk,” Ciara said.

  Roman followed, but he wasn’t sure that it was the smartest move. This didn’t feel right.

  The BMW raced forward, past Roman and Ciara, and jerked to a stop. A man in a suit climbed out of the shotgun seat and buttoned his jacket. He definitely looked like a cop.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” he asked. Roman wasn’t good at identifying accents, but English was not this guy’s primary language. The man smiled, but there was nothing friendly in it.

  Ciara froze. “Guzman?”

  “Hello, Ciara.”

  She backpedaled. Roman stayed with her. “Why are you here?” she asked. She looked scared.

  “I thought we could spend some time together.” Something behind the guy’s eyes unsettled Roman’s stomach.

  “I–I can’t,” Ciara stammered. “Not today. We have to get back.”

  Guzman—whoever the hell he was—continued his slow advance as Ciara continued her slow retreat. Roman stayed with her step for step.

  “And who is this?” Guzman asked.

  “A friend.” It was not lost on Roman that she did not offer his name.

  Guzman beckoned to a guy from the second vehicle. “Well, Ciara’s friend, you wouldn’t mind if she spent some time alone with her Uncle Cristos and me, would you?” A man emerged from the second car and strolled their way.

  Roman didn’t know what was happening, but he knew they were in danger.

  “Stay back!” he yelled. Really, truly yelled. He wanted to draw as much attention as he could. He pushed Ciara behind him and dropped down into his fighter’s crouch. Weight evenly distributed left to right, back to front.

  “Get out of the way, kid, before you get hurt.”

  “What are you doing?” Ciara whispered.

  “Leave us alone!” Roman shouted.

  Both men were beginning to look nervous with the shouting. A couple of faces gathered at the fence, looking out at them from the waterpark.

  “You’re about to overcommit, kid,” Guzman said. He rushed forward, taking a swing at Roman, but the boy squatted below the punch and launched one of his own, squarely into the man’s solar plexus. Guzman’s knees buckled, but he didn’t go down.

  As the second guy rushed in, Roman launched a powerful kick that caught him in the knee. He didn’t go down, either, but Roman had bought them some time.

  “Come on,” Roman said. He pushed Ciara in front of him and kept his hand in the middle of her back until they were both sprinting past the cars and down the sidewalk.

  Running in flip-flops took precious time off every stride, but the concrete sidewalk was about a million degrees, so running barefoot was out of the question.

  “Right at the corner,” Roman said, pointing ahead. As if there were any other choice. Behind him, he heard a car’s engine rev and a brief squeal of tires as the men came at them.

  The BMW raced up on their left and swung the turn wide, driving the front wheel up onto the sidewalk about ten yards ahead, blocking their path completely.

  “Other way,” Roman said, grabbing Ciara’s arm and pulling her back.

  The guy called Guzman had recovered, and when he peeled himself out of the door this time, he looked pissed as hell.

  Roman and Ciara reversed course and sprinted across the two-way street toward the desert that seemed to stretch forever out in front of them. When he heard the footsteps approaching from behind, combined with the sound of the big BMW turning around, Roman knew that they couldn’t win a foot chase.

  When they got to the sidewalk on the other side, he said, “You run. I’ll slow them—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, one of them caught up and delivered a massive shove between Roman’s shoulder bl
ades, sending him sprawling face-first into the blistering sand. He tried to find his feet, but a heavy shoe caught him squarely in the balls and his world exploded in pain. His whole body, from his knees to his chest, seized up in a giant cramp that stole his breath.

  He was vaguely aware that Ciara was yelling, but he didn’t know what she was saying. All he knew for sure was that his mouth was full of sand and that he couldn’t see anything.

  “Let go of me!” That was definitely Ciara. Then she went quiet.

  Roman rolled up to his hands and knees, hoping to stand, and then hands were on him. “Okay, tough guy,” an adult male voice said. “You’re in this, too.”

  He was half-carried, half-dragged toward the car, one hand squeezing his neck in the front and another lifting him by the waistband of his shorts. When they got to the car, hands patted his thighs hard, causing him to raise his legs. He couldn’t survive another shot to his nuts.

  The guy took Roman’s cell phone from his front pocket and shoved him into the backseat.

  “Where is Ciara?”

  “Hey, kid.”

  Roman turned in time to see a bright red light flash behind his eyes.

  Chapter Two

  “Roman is missing!”

  Jonathan Grave’s head jerked up from the administrivia on his desk to see Venice Alexander trembling in the doorway to his office, her eyes red and wet. Melting mascara streaked her face like a mime’s tears. She was on the edge of a meltdown. Everything about her screamed terror.

  “What does missing mean?”

  “It means that he didn’t report back to the bus by the designated time,” she explained. Other than the movement of her lips to speak, her body remained locked in place. Frozen.

  Jonathan rose from his chair and stepped around to the front of his desk. Behind him, in the marina beyond the double window, the masts of million-dollar yachts swayed against the crystal springtime sky.

  “Come in, come in,” he said as he approached with his arms out, either to embrace her or to catch her as she collapsed. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Venice Alexander (pronounced “Ven-EE-chay” because long story) had been a part of Jonathan’s life since the day she was born. Her mother—Florence, officially, but known to the world as Mama—had been Jonathan’s family housekeeper when he was a boy and had morphed into the role of surrogate mother when little Jonny’s mom died young. That made Venice his ersatz little sister, with more than a few years separating their ages.

  Roman Pennington was her everything. A living monument to his mom’s bad taste in men, Roman had been hit hard by adolescence. For the past few months, he’d been exploring the dark corners of young teen assholery and had made himself impossible to be around.

  Jonathan gently grasped Venice’s wrist and elbow. “C’mon, kid,” he said. “Let’s sit you down before you fall.”

  Venice walked with a hesitant gait. In a different setting, she might have looked drunk. Jonathan guided her to the seat closest to the fireplace, the dark-green leather sofa. Normally, he would have put himself in the William and Mary rocker that was easiest on his back, but he chose to sit next to her on the couch, instead, so close that their thighs touched.

  Rapid knocking drew his attention back to his office door, where Gail Bonneville stood breathless in the opening. She was a key member of Jonathan’s team. “I just now saw your text,” she said. “Oh, my God, Ven, what have you heard?”

  Did I get a text? Jonathan wondered. He gestured to the sofa opposite them. “We’re just about to get to that,” he said. Then, to Venice: “Start at the beginning.”

  Jonathan watched as Venice struggled to reel in the emotions that had leapt well past her ability to reason. He’d give her all the time she needed.

  “He was on his trip,” she began, but Jonathan interrupted her.

  “What trip?”

  “The school trip to El Paso,” she explained.

  Jonathan shot his hand to her knee. “Wait. El Paso, Texas?”

  Venice looked startled.

  “Did I know about this?” he asked. Then, to Gail, “Did you know about this?”

  “I knew he was going on a field trip,” Gail said.

  “So did I. But I didn’t know it was to El-friggin-Paso.” Jonathan’s mind reeled. As far as the Mexican drug cartels were concerned, El Paso was just an extension of their local market. “Holy shit, Ven,” he blurted, immediately regretting his tone.

  Gail’s eyes shot lasers. “Digger!”

  Okay, he wasn’t doing much to defuse the angst, but Jesus. “You know what I do for a living, right?” he said. “You know that we’ve blown major chunks out of northern Mexico. El Paso is literally an inch from Mexico.”

  “Come on, Dig,” Gail tried again. “She’s already scared to death.”

  “This is the newspaper thing, right?” Jonathan asked. Roman loved his role as editor, and this trip was one of the few things Jonathan had seen him excited about in a long time.

  “Multimedia journalism,” Venice corrected.

  How can that distinction possibly matter? “I thought that was at Arkansas State.”

  “It was, but that fell through. Something about budgets for summer programs.”

  “Aren’t there a couple hundred other journalism schools that aren’t in war zones?”

  Gail had had enough. “Digger, stop!”

  “The conference is at UTEP,” Venice said. “University of Texas at El Paso. Dr. Washington is an alum. Oh, my God, Digger, what do you think might have happened?”

  Jonathan resigned himself to moving on. “It doesn’t matter what might have happened,” he said. “I don’t yet have a grasp on what did happen. What do you know?”

  Venice explained, “Dr. Washington called me about fifteen minutes ago. The kids had free time this afternoon to look around the city, but they were supposed to be back to their bus by three o’clock to go on to their next event. Dinner, I think. Roman and another student were the only ones not to return.”

  “Who is the other student?” Gail asked.

  “Sarah somebody, I think.” Venice said. “I didn’t recognize the last name, but Roman had mentioned her before.”

  Three o’clock Texas time meant four o’clock Virginia time. Jonathan looked at his watch. Seventeen-ten. “He took his sweet time making the call.”

  “Who is Dr. Washington?” Gail asked.

  “Everett Washington is the headmaster of Northern Neck Academy,” Jonathan explained. Jonathan had spent twelve miserable years as a student at the Neck before he escaped for college. He thought of the place as a prison for overprivileged rich kids.

  “So, where does it stand with Washington now?” Jonathan asked.

  “He told me he’s got the police involved. The other children are back in the hotel for the night. Everyone is saying prayers.”

  “Good,” Jonathan said. “Thoughts and prayers. That’s always the best way to go.” He didn’t know if his irony shined in his words, and he didn’t much care. “How many kids are on this trip?”

  “Ten or twelve, I think,” Venice said. “The entire newspaper staff.”

  “We have to stay positive,” Gail said. “Chances are, this is nothing at all. Some prank.”

  Won’t they have an interesting story to report? Jonathan didn’t say. He stared at the dark fireplace as he catalogued what he’d just been told. The police wouldn’t do jack to track down a couple of thirteen-year-olds who’d been given permission to wander off. There’d be a picture on cops’ duty sheets, and they’d be urged to keep an eye out for them, but there’d be no priority on it.

  “Can you get the other student’s name?” Jonathan asked.

  Venice swiped at her eyes, worsening the mascara disaster. “I don’t know. Probably.” Her lip trembled. “Oh, Digger, please don’t tell me you think that anything bad has happened to him. I don’t know what I’d do if . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  “I don’t think anything yet,” Jona
than said. Honesty was the best strategy at this point. “But we can’t rule anything out, either.”

  Venice stared at the floor as she hugged herself and rocked gently.

  “Hey, Ven?”

  She looked up.

  “I gotta ask a hard question,” Jonathan said. “How have you two been getting along?”

  “You already know the answer to that,” she muttered. “It’s been horrible. He’s angry all the time. Nothing I do or Mama does is ever good enough. He wants to be left alone, but when we leave him alone, he stops studying. He doesn’t do anything. There’s something not right there. What’s your point?”

  Jonathan sat back in his seat. “No point to be made,” he said. He kept his words barely audible so Venice would have to lean in to hear him. “But that’s one of the questions the police are going to ask you.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “So . . . Do you think he might be doing drugs? He and this friend?” He expected to be severely admonished by Gail for asking the question, but he saw in her eyes that she was way ahead of him.

  “No!” Venice exclaimed. “Absolutely not! Roman? You’ve known him as long as I have, Dig. Do you see him as a druggie?”

  The truth of it was no, he didn’t. Jonathan knew Roman to be a good kid with a big heart and a quick sense of humor, and he knew that for more than a few weeks, that heart and humor had evaporated. Wasn’t that the story every parent and close friend tells when they find out their kid has gone to the dark side?

  “I’m just saying it’s something they’re going to ask. If you say no, then the answer is no. Regardless, they’re likely to assume that the kids are being kids. That kind of assumption is likely to get in the way of a good investigation.”

  “What are you suggesting I do?” Wired like a spring, she was ready to launch at the slightest provocation.

  “Not a thing,” Jonathan said. “I’m just thinking out loud at this point. The one thing I absolutely want you to do is answer any questions they might ask truthfully.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  Jonathan looked to Gail for some help.

  “They are going to suspect drugs,” Gail said. “It’s their default assumption. When they start asking you questions about Roman’s attitude and actions recently, it’ll be easy for you to try to shade facts to draw them away from that.”