by Brian Parker
One of the other players finally got involved in a hand with the farmer. Before he made it to the flop, Jim Bob had him all in. He turned over a pair of kings, cowboys as some people called them, and waited for the cards to fall. Jim Bob refused to turn over his cards and said he’d show after the last card hit the table. Unacceptable most places, but apparently it was fine at this joint. The last card, the river card, was played and the farmer cursed loudly and threw his cards to the dealer without exposing them. Just as I thought, he doesn’t have a hand, he just bullies the pot and collects the blinds, Grayson thought to himself.
The dealer dealt the next hand and the farmer was too interested in getting the attention of the waitress to look at his cards. “Jim Bob,” the dealer asked impatiently.
“I fold,” he said without looking, then he shouted, “Cherie, where’s that frito pie and barbecue pork sandwich I ordered?”
Grayson looked down at his pocket cards. He had the Ace and Ten of Hearts. He’d play that hand just about any time. Everyone at the table except Jim Bob stayed in to the flop. The Two, Six and Jack of Hearts came up and Grayson had the nut flush right off the bat. The first player to act bet a small amount which everyone around the table called. The turn was the Three of Hearts. That sent a flurry of raises and re-raises around the table as well. Surprisingly, only one person folded out of the hand, so there were five players waiting to go to the river. The last card was the Ace of Spades, no help for the flush draw on the table, but someone might have paired or even tripled their aces. Everyone at the table had to make a bet and three of the other four went all in. Grayson called and that put him all in as well.
As the cards were turned over, player by player, there were trip two’s, a straight from the two to the six and a Jack-high flush with the Jack from the table. That left one other player and Grayson to reveal what they had. The local turned over the King of Hearts. A flush, king high. He looked smug and eyed the large pile of chips in the middle of the table. Grayson turned over his Ten of Hearts and the other man stood up to rake in the chips. “Hold on, I’ve still got one card left. Unfortunately for you, it’s a doozie,” he said as he flipped the Ace of Hearts out into the middle of the table. The young player sat down and put his head in his hands.
Grayson pulled the stack towards him and tossed a fifty dollar chip to the dealer, who looked like she’d had a rough lifetime of disappointment and drinking. Jim Bob let out a laugh, “Hey stranger, Bernice there doesn’t give blow jobs for tips, shoulda saved your money. Ha ha ha…” he continued laughing at his own joke.
That hand gave Grayson well over $4,500 and he motioned for the pit boss to come over. “I’d like to cash out please,” he told the man.
“Wait a minute, boy.” It was Jim Bob, “That’s not how the game is played ‘round here. You don’t win a big pot then just leave the table. Didn’t anyone ever teach you no manners?”
Grayson stared at him, about to mouth off right back at the good ‘ol boy, but then he reconsidered and cleaned up his response. “You know what, you’re right, I haven’t taken any of your money yet,” he said.
“Ha! We got us a gentleman caller who just doesn’t know the way of things in these parts. We don’t like all you outta-towners stopping by the casino on the way to wherever the fuck you’re goin’. Life’s too hard here without your kind and those shitbird soldiers over at the base too. All of ‘em outsiders, never know’d what it’s like to go hungry.”
Two of the men at the table each started to say something but Grayson cut them off with a motion of his hand. It was obvious they were a couple of young soldiers out at the casino for the night. “Sir, first off, it doesn’t look like you’ve ever missed a meal and second, Lawton, Oklahoma would be a no-account shit-hole without Fort Sill and the twenty-two thousand troops stationed there. The military brings so much income to this area that it would collapse without their money. So go fuck yourself you fat piece of shit, I’ve given too much of myself to the United States military to let some redneck goat-fucker talk like that to me…”
He was cut off by a hand on his shoulder. Out of instinct he turned quickly to his left and grabbed the wrist of the hand that had been on his shoulder. He kept turning until he was out of his chair, standing up. He let his momentum carry him through to turn the man and bring his arm up behind his back until Grayson was standing behind the offender with his limb jacked up behind him in a classic control movement. He stopped short of dislocating the man’s shoulder and his steel-gray eyes darted around the room to determine if this guy had backup or was acting alone.
“Whoa, take it easy sir. I work here!” the man squealed. “Things were getting too hot and I was told to come down here and ask you to leave. Please sir, let me go and it’ll just be a misunderstanding and you can cash out and leave.”
Grayson relaxed the pressure on his arm, but didn’t release him until he looked over his shoulder and saw the man’s nametag pinned to his shirt. He released him and apologized. “That’s all I was trying to do before he got started on me,” he said gesturing at Jim Bob.
Jim Bob stared coldly across the table from him. He’d spilled his frito pie on himself when Grayson had reacted to the bouncer, adding even more of a mess to his overalls. “I’m gonna get you boy. Nobody talks to me like that and gets away with it. My boys won’t give a fuck about your fancy fairy moves.”
Grayson stared back as he placed his chips in the carrier. He was reluctant to turn his back on the fat farmer since you never knew if someone had a weapon on them, but he forced himself to turn around and carry his chips to the cashiers’ window. He was flanked by the bouncer he’d grappled with and another who’d came up as he was collecting his chips.
“That’s $4,645 sir,” the cashier said as she began counting out the money and making neat little $1,000 piles. “Thank you for playing at the Cherokee Nation Casino,” she said as she spread her fingers wide, palms down, and then reversed them so her hands were facing up in easy view of the security camera overhead.
Grayson stuffed the cash in the front pocket of his jeans and walked to the front doors. “It’s been fun gentlemen,” he said as he was leaving.
“Thank you for playing at the Cherokee Nation Casino, sir. Please don’t come back,” the man who’s arm he’d twisted behind his back stated.
That’s the last thing I’m gonna do, he thought. Hell, that fat fuck was the one who egged me on. He decided that he needed to hurry back to his hotel room before someone tried to jump him in the parking lot for his winnings. That happened all the time. Thugs would hang out near the cashiers and when someone cashed out they’d follow them outside and mug them for their prize money. Grayson turned quickly around the corner of the building and sprinted to the parking lot. He ran at a crouch, through several rows and finally stopped between an old Ford pickup and a minivan. He turned and watched the corner of the building where he’d come from.
As if on cue, two men came around the corner wearing hoodies and sunglasses, despite the dark, warm April evening. He saw them look around and begin cursing. They split up. One continued along the building, intent on checking out the alley behind it and the other hurried into the parking lot towards Grayson.
He shifted back behind the minivan and watched the thug through the windshield by looking in the back window. The skinny mugger was walking slowly acting as if he was going to his car. Light glinted off something in his hand as he pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt down over his fist.
Grayson had been in too many scrapes throughout his life to not take this threat seriously. He knew he had to act fast and viciously if he was going to avoid being stabbed or killed. Even given all he had seen, he had a little difficulty believing that in a few minutes he’d be fighting for his life in a casino parking lot in Oklahoma. He picked up a couple small pebbles and resumed watching the advancing thug.
***
Bobby made his way through the first row of cars looking to his left and right. That guy had gotten a lot of
money from the cashier. If he and Craig could score this, they would have enough money for several weeks and he could buy the good shit instead of the second-rate crap the strippers sold him. He mumbled something to a couple as they walked past him towards the garishly lit building. He crouched down and looked under a few of the vehicles. He straightened back upright and continued walking carefully towards the back of the parking lot.
He walked through a few more rows of cars and made his way between a beat up old truck and a minivan like his mother used to drive. Slowly, cautiously, he advanced. Surely the guy had been tipped off that they were coming after him, there’s no way he could have gotten away so fast. He reached the rear bumper of the two cars and heard something moving around in the bed of the truck to his left. He spun around and looked into the truck bed with his knife held up to strike. There was nobody there. A few pebbles rolled towards the tailgate. The wind must have blown ‘em around, he thought. This was a waste of his time, the guy was gone.
He turned back towards the rear of the truck and light exploded in his head as the guy he’d been after hit him with a knife-edged chop to the throat. As he fell, he tried to scream for help but the only sound that came out was a gurgled grunt. His head hit the pavement hard and he lay there trying to suck in air but he wasn’t getting much. The guy he’d been following came into his line of sight and swung his foot back and kicked him repeatedly in the ribs. He felt them snap like twigs under the pressure of the heavy boot. He bent down and took the kitchen knife from Bobby’s hand. “Please, no,” he tried to say but it didn’t even sound like English as blood bubbled out of his mouth. The man put the knife blade under his boot and snapped it off.
“I didn’t kill you or hit you hard enough to do long-term damage. Let this be a turning point in your miserable life.” He flinched as his cell phone shattered on the ground near his face. “You’re lucky that I’m a good guy and didn’t fuck up your life forever. And fuck you, you filthy fuck.” Another kick, this time the boot rammed into his dick and testicles, and the man that he’d been following was gone. All Bobby could do was roll over onto his side and puke.
THREE
15 April, 0825 hrs local
Oregon Convention Center
Portland, Oregon
The armored vehicles sped through the streets behind the police escort. On either side of the road, protesters held signs and yelled at the motorcade of black SUVs and sedans with blacked out windows. Most of the crowds were young students from the surrounding universities and the rest were older hippies from the communes that were everywhere in the region. The average working-age person didn’t really care too much about the summit and even viewed it as a good thing for the global economy, but to the people in this group, it represented everything that was wrong with the politics of the world: The rich got richer and the poor got poorer.
The Group of Eight Summit was comprised of eight nations[5] and met annually at different locations within one of the member nation’s borders. The United States was hosting the summit this year and as always, when it was held in the states, there were massive protests. The G-8 is made up of the major industrialized nations in the northern hemisphere and the topics of the summit could change markedly from year-to-year since the country hosting the summit determined the bulk of the agenda.
Combating global warming had been one of the central topics of the previous year’s summit. This year the media hadn’t yet gotten wind of what was going to be discussed and that bred conspiracy theories faster than the Area-51 cover-up. In fact, several of the protestors even held signs that led one to believe the leaders of the G-8 were in cahoots with aliens, out to crush the common man.
The motorcade stopped at a police barricade until the crossbar was lifted and they went through. They turned off of Lloyd Boulevard into the underground parking garage of the Oregon Convention Center. The latest group of sedans added to another thirty or so that had arrived previously and were parked in the garage.
The earpiece of the Secret Service agent emitted a tiny amount of static as message traffic went back and forth over the agency’s secure line. The SUV’s leather seat made a soft squelching noise as the big agent turned towards the president and said, “They’re conducting the final sweep with the K-9 units Mr. President. Then it will be safe to exit the vehicles and meet the rest of the G-8 members.”
“Thanks Mike. Damn I hate those protestors! Everywhere we go, people are protesting something.”
“Yes sir,” Agent Mike Winters said stoically.
A few minutes passed, then he said, “All clear Mr. President, we can proceed into the building.”
Two more agents came up to the sedan and opened the door. Mike got out from the other side and hurried around to take his place beside the president. He’d been an agent for over fifteen years. His first assignment after the Special Agent Basic Training program was in Denver as a counterfeit currency investigator and then as a team chief in the Anchorage branch until finally he was brought over to Protection five years ago. It was, without a doubt, the proudest day of his life the first time he met the President of the United States and told him that he was going to be providing security for him that day.
His daily routine while in D.C. was to rearrange the bed covers on his three children, little Mikey, Kaylee and Emma, kiss his wife Judy goodbye and get picked up by another agent early in the morning. Then, almost daily, he and five other agents ran four-plus miles with the president, depending on how far he felt like running that day. Next, while the president showered and got him morning intelligence brief, it was off to a half hour of weapon’s training or hand-to-hand grappling before showering and going back to the White House to be with the president. At the end of the day, he’d outbrief his relief agents and get home just in time for a warmed up dinner and to help with the dishes and baths for the kids.
All that changed two weeks ago. It happened over the weekend when no one was expecting him at work. They emerged from his basement as everyone was sitting down at the table for breakfast. They were professionals and knew exactly what they were doing. No bruises or marks on him at all. As for Judy, she’d gotten a huge welt on her head and there had been blood running from her nose. The kids had chloroform placed over their mouths before they even had time to scream. Their leader outlined exactly what he was supposed to do and assured him that his family wouldn’t be hurt any more if he did what they told him to do. His family was taken away and two of the terrorists stayed in his home to keep a watch over him.
His training as an agent told him not to negotiate with them. The training told him that even if he did comply, the hostages wouldn’t be released. They’d either be held for further manipulation of him, or, more likely, they’d be killed. He knew this. He’d given hostage survival classes to his fellow agents for years. But this was his family, not some text-book scenario. Mikey was only 14 months old for Pete’s sake. Little Emma would turn four in a month and Kaylee was excited to complete the second grade in June. Judy had been in his life since he was twelve. He couldn’t risk doing something that would jeopardize their safety, even if it meant he had to do something so heinous that he would forever be vilified by the world.
“This way, Mr. President,” he gestured towards a set of large mahogany doors.
On the other side of the doors, the remaining seven heads of state were sitting at a large round table with stacks of bound paper lying in front of them. Several rows of chairs sat in concentric circles from the middle table. The outer chairs were full of staffers and assistants who waited to attend to the needs of their country’s leaders. Ten other Secret Service agents lined the walls at various intervals and two more sat at the far end of the hall by the doors leading to the press room.
The press room was adjacent to the conference room and was reached through a set of metal doors. In the press room, nine rows of ten folding chairs were arranged facing a podium and eight chairs with the flags of the respective nations behind each chair. There would be a
press conference right after the lunch break to reveal the agenda and outline the proposed plan of action to achieve the conference goals.
The morning went by quickly. Agent Winters went back and forth between the press room and the command center to continually check up on the building’s security. The press room was beginning to resemble a goddamn circus show and it was only going to be infinitely worse after the news conference. Everything was progressing exactly as planned and without any glitches. The time for the press conference rolled around. Cameramen adjusted their shots, reporters checked their note pads and the questions written on them and agents scanned the crowd for anything amiss.
The first person to stand at the podium was the White House Press Secretary. He finished his in-brief to the press corps and turned towards the door that the president and the other heads of state would enter through. As was usual with this president, they didn’t start exactly when they were supposed to at the one forty-five time, but they were close.
They filed in one by one and sat at their assigned seat in front of their flags. President Gosebeck strode in and walked to the podium. Mike Winters gave him the thumbs up sign and moved to the side of the small stage. He reached inside his jacket and his hand closed around the hard rubberized grip of the agency’s issue firearm.
***
15 April, 1345 hrs local
The Pentagon
Arlington, Virginia
“Alright, your paperwork checks out and we’re done searching your vehicles. Your crew can re-enter the trucks now, the Pentagon Police officer said. “Your paperwork says there was supposed to be three delivery trucks, what happened to the other one?”
“We had engine trouble, that’s why we’re crammed in here with the sweets sir,” the on-site delivery manager said.
“Man, that sucks,” the officer empathized. “Okay, go straight through here to the loading dock at corridor three,” he finished as he waved the large white catering van through.