The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  “What the hell just happened?” I shout to no one, and everyone.

  The limousine lurches to a stop in front of the elevators. Although the vehicle’s windows are bullet proof, and the tires are run flats, I don’t trust the integrity of the limo to fend off anything but a few more rounds.

  Somehow, I’ve become an observer. As if the chaos in the garage, in the limo, and in myself are happening to someone else, akin to watching a movie trailer—I’m detached. Junior opens his door and twists to the left, wincing in pain. He’s hit. JoJo opens my door and drags me out. Two policemen fire at the motorcycle cop who has followed us, on foot, into the garage. He fires back. JoJo grunts and falls. The smell of gunpowder, the sound of gunfire fills the garage.

  “What the hell?” Wade shouts. Junior, and I have our arms around the Knights, dashing away from the limo and into the elevator. The doors slide shut, muffling the awful noise.

  I glance at Anwar and Tilly, searching for any signs of harm.

  Wade’s hands are shaking. “You okay, Junior?”

  I follow Wade’s eyes to Junior. Blood trickles down his shoulder.

  Junior shrugs. “It’s just a graze, I’m okay.”

  “Shit.” I’m slow on the uptake, the movie trailer taking its time to end so I can rejoin the live action. “Did anybody see JoJo get up?”

  “Boss,” Junior says, “he didn’t.”

  I slap at the buttons on the panel in the elevator car. It continues its slow hydraulic climb to the first level. I bang even harder at the buttons. The need to get back down to the garage, to get to JoJo, is killing me.

  “Junior, go with Wade. Get the Knights to the green room.” I shout out, “Copy that Smitty, Gayle? Go to the green room.”

  “The troops are on the way, boss.” It’s Liz. With every second that rushes by, her soothing voice in my ear calms me down. She will already have called in the proper response—military, police, paramedics, whatever it takes.

  When the elevator stops, I train my weapon on the door and step to the front as a human shield. “Anwar, Tilly, go with Wade and Junior. They’ll keep you safe.”

  “No,” Dr. Knight says, “you stay with us.”

  I shake my head. “No. I have to go back downstairs. Go with Wade, you’ll be safe.”

  The doors slide open. The area is clear. We pile out of the elevator, Wade and Junior shielding the Knights. They dash off toward the green room. I turn to the stairs.

  In a firefight, time is the enemy. The longer it lasts, the more damage done. Even though I’m only one flight above the parking garage, it takes forever to clamber down the dark and humid stairwell—precious seconds zipping by. The closer I get to the garage, the more details attack my senses—gunshots, the smell of cordite, and the cries of battle.

  At the bottom landing, I pause rather than rush into the garage. The familiar pop-pop-pop of a small caliber weapon, probably the .38 special that started this shit-storm, rings out from the other side of the metal door. I push the panic bar. A uniformed figure spins around. It’s the motorcycle cop who took us all by surprise. Without hesitation, I put two bullets in his head. He fires his pistol over his head and crumbles to the ground. My ears ring. Approaching footsteps and raised voices blend together in a muted buzz. The words are familiar, battle cries, a mix of adrenaline and testosterone—a lethal combination.

  I drop my pistol, raise my hands, and shout, “Policìa.” JoJo is ten feet away, legs twisted like a rag doll, his polished shoes twitching. He’s alive. Keeping my hands in the air, I take baby steps toward him. His dark face lies on the oil stained concrete, blood oozing from his wounds.

  “Alto,” somebody shouts, “No se mueva.”

  “Soy la policìa,” I yell, edging closer still to JoJo.

  The familiar voice of Major Flores calls out, “Detengase.” Stand down.

  Cradling JoJo’s head in my arms, I tell him to breathe, assuring him help is on the way. Blood covers the ground. I do my best to assess his injuries, but my clumsy hands shake over his head and torso. Finally, I find the horror that took him down—a gaping hole through the center of his chest. A .38 special did not inflict this damage. “Hang in there, buddy.”

  He gasps for breath and makes eye contact. His lips move, trying to speak.

  “Quiet. I got you.” Sirens scream in the garage. “Hang in there, JoJo.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “Knight?”

  “He’s okay, not a scratch on—”

  “No…listen.” He moans, his chest heaving up and down.

  He’s in shock. Blue and red lights bounce off the walls, reflecting off the chrome bumpers of parked cars. A dozen pair of shoes gather around us.

  “Stay strong, JoJo—”

  “I’m not…not…JoJo. Ask Samantha—”

  His final words, before he passes out, punch me in the gut. Who’s Samantha?

  XIII

  The paramedics waste little time placing JoJo on a gurney and into the ambulance. They’ve already started an IV and have him on oxygen. Police cars pour into the garage until there’s room for no more. The noxious odor of carbon monoxide fills the parking structure. I rub at the blood on my hands, my stomach churning. I’ve been in plenty of firefights during the war, but this is different. Being ambushed in a civilized country left me confused, spent.

  “Here,” Major Flores says handing me a towel. “Are you okay?”

  I wipe the blood from my hands and accept a bottle of water offered by a paramedic. “I’m fine. What hospital are they taking him to?”

  “Hospital Central Norte de Pemex. It’s ten minutes away. I’m so sorry about this unfortunate incident.”

  “Unfortunate incident?”

  “The cartels wage war twenty-four-seven with little regard for civilian life or property. This is not the first time we have experienced—”

  “This wasn’t a gang shooting, Major. Someone tried to assassinate Dr. Knight.”

  “No, señor, you’re mistaken. This was the work of the cartels.”

  I turn and point to where I shot and killed the assassin. The body is gone. A large puddle of blood still covers the concrete, but there’s no corpse. “What the hell, there was a DB right there—”

  “Señor, you should assess the well-being of Dr. Knight, no?”

  “No. I want to see the closed circuit—”

  “The cameras on this level have been down for the past two days.”

  I shake my head. “You said nothing about that this morning during the walk-through.” My mind races to make sense of what’s happened. Turning around, I face the mounting police presence in the garage. Yellow tape is being wrapped around the scene. Officers in black jumpsuits place evidence placards across the ground next to bullet casings, JoJo’s handgun, and other items of interest. Police photographers capture the scene. “We had two police motorcycle escorts from the hotel. I want to speak with those officers now.”

  Major Flores motions to the overcrowded scene. “Of course. And, who would they be?”

  I take a deep breath to calm down. “Listen to me very carefully, major, this was not a cartel shooting. This was an attempted assassination of Dr. Anwar Knight.” I march away from him, tuning out the useless words tumbling from his mouth and head for the elevator.

  Two of his men step in front of me, blocking my path. I glance back at the major. He nods and they step aside.

  When the elevator doors slide shut I’m grateful to have a minute to myself—a brief moment to think. My ears still ring from the gunshots. I’m sweating like a marathon runner, and my hands are trembling. At least I’m still alive. I wonder how much pull Major Flores has with the local police, and how long he’ll be able to keep them at bay—or if he’ll even try. After all, he’s the one who arranged the motorcycle escort from the hotel. The more I think about the major, the more my fear about providing adequate security for Dr. Knight increases. The arena feels like enemy territory—a kill zone. How would we ever escape its confines alive?


  A calm and cool voice sounds from the ComLink device, “Status?”

  I cup my hand over my ear, “Liz, it’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Talk to me, boss,” she says. “What’s your status?”

  “JoJo’s down. They’re transporting him to uh…uh Hospital Central Norte de Pemex. Junior was grazed—it’s not serious. He’ll be okay—Band-Aid and a new coat.” I glance at my watch. Nineteen thirty hours. The elevator doors slide open. Reflex moves my hand under my coat and onto the butt of my 9mm. “I’m on my way to the green room.”

  “Roger that. I’ll call the hospital and find out how JoJo’s doing.”

  “Let me know as soon as you can. We need to get him back to the states ASAP. In fact, find out about getting us a chopper.”

  “Copy that.”

  When I enter the green room, I fully expect Tilly and Anwar Knight to be huddled in the corner, trembling as much as I am, pleading to be taken to the airport.

  Wade locks the door behind me and Dr. Knight steps forward, his voice strong and composed. “How is JoJo?”

  I take a moment. Mrs. Knight is sitting on a tan leather couch, a cigarette held between shaking fingers. Wade and Junior stand on either side of the door. Gayle and Smitty sit at a table in the center of the room. They acknowledge me with a nod. Dr. Knight is genial. Instead of exhibiting any signs of shock after surviving the firefight, he’s composed, as if waiting for a train that’s just slightly off schedule.

  “JoJo’s in bad shape. He’s on the way to the hospital,” I say. “I don’t know the extent of his injuries yet, but I plan to get him out of the country as soon as I can—the same for you.”

  Dr. Knight tilts his head and frowns. “But my speech tonight…surely you mean we’ll leave after my speech.”

  “No. I mean now.”

  “Many people have come to see me—”

  “Listen, somebody just tried to kill you. They shot two of my men. It’s not safe here. We need to evacuate. There’s a helicopter pad just south of us here. What we need to do—”

  “First, you need to breathe,” he says with a smile. “Relax. I’m so sorry about JoJo, but you and your men did an excellent job. You acted efficiently so that I may deliver my address, as planned. I will never be able to thank you enough for your sacrifice, but there you have it.”

  “Anwar, I highly recommend you cancel—”

  “Out of the question.” With that, Dr. Knight turns, strolls across the room, and joins his wife on the couch. She hands him the rest of her cigarette.

  We should be high-tailing it out of the arena right now, as fast as we can. Instead, Dr. Knight is dead set on delivering his speech, and there’s nothing I can do to change his mind. I shake my head. We escaped an attack which took me totally by surprise, landed JoJo in the hospital, and injured my driver. Talk about an operation going sideways—

  Pounding on the door echoes across the room. I pull my 9mm.

  “Señor Davis. It’s Major Flores, let me in.”

  I picture the entire Mexican Police force on the other side of the door, weapons drawn. Before I can say anything, Wade pulls the door open. Major Flores stands alone.

  “Señor Davis, I must escort you downtown. The police need to talk to you.”

  “Out of the question.”

  The major ambles into the room, speaking in a calm, measured tone, “They wanted me to bring in your entire team, but I explained the situation.”

  “Situation?”

  “Dr. Knight’s speech tonight. The need for protection after the cartel shooting is most essential, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Why do they want to talk to me?”

  “Although the incident tonight was unfortunate, you fired your weapon. That requires a few questions.”

  “I fired in defense.”

  “Even so.” He strides forward and holds out his hand. “I must ask for your weapon and your passport. Don’t worry señor, I will personally escort you downtown.”

  Gayle, Smitty, and Wade move toward me. I hold my hand up, a signal for them to stand down. “Dr. Knight,” I say, “last chance.”

  “I shall deliver my speech tonight. We will either see you tonight, or tomorrow in Las Vegas. Be strong, my friend.”

  My insides tighten. This is a mistake, but the client isn’t budging. “Wade, you’re in charge. Stay in contact with Liz. Straight to the airport after the speech.”

  He shakes his head. “Boss, we shouldn’t split up.”

  “I’m counting on you, desperado.”

  After a beat, he concedes. “Will do.”

  Major Flores accepts my 9mm and passport. He escorts me downstairs to the parking garage where a police vehicle waits.

  It takes several minutes to leave the underground parking structure. The path, bogged down with a large crowd lumbering along the sidewalks, streams toward the arena—lucky ticket holders on their way to see Dr. Knight. Scalpers and numerous street vendors add to the commotion. The sun has settled in for the night. Street lights cast eerie shadows on the walls of the huge complex. I sit in the back of the unmarked police cruiser next to Major Flores who shouts instructions at his driver while keeping one eye on me. It’s apparent we won’t be breaking any speed limits.

  “Your team is good,” he says, his words taking me off guard. Compliment or criticism? “You and your team do your job quite well.” He paused, as if waiting for a reaction.

  “What’s your point?”

  “Knight is the leading proponent for globalization. He has millions of followers as well as the ear of the Economic Forum, and the World Bank.”

  “Once again, your point?”

  He scoffs. “As someone who suffered because of his politics—being captured and tortured while defending his one-world view—”

  “How do you know so much about me?”

  “Not only you, Señor Davis, we know everything about your team.”

  “We? What the hell’s that supposed to mean. I don’t—”

  The car lurches forward, eliciting a tirade from Flores toward his hapless driver. Pedestrians brush past the black sedan, some pounding on the hood with the palms of their hands. That really gets the major going. The driver taps the brakes, inching the vehicle forward through the mass of people. They march before us in an endless wave.

  Visions of a faceless multitude tramping through a neon city invade my mind. I rub my eyes, trying to clear the thought, but it’s hard to shake. I’m certain it’s just a reaction to seeing so many people pass in front of the police car, mixed with concerns of what might lie ahead in Vegas. It’s either that, or the sights and sounds of the shooting playing over in my head on an endless loop has me spooked.

  The ComLink in my ear comes to life. “You have to get to the hospital…now.” The voice is female but doesn’t belong to either Liz or Gayle.

  I give Major Flores a sideways glance. He’s leaning forward, shouting at the unfortunate driver, urging him to push through the crowd. I cough and raise my hand to cover my mouth, waiting for the major’s voice to grow louder. It does. “Say again,” I whisper.

  “You have to talk to JoJo.”

  “What the hell? Who is this?”

  Major Flores turns to me. “What did you say?”

  “This is Samantha,” the voice on the ComLink says. “Get to JoJo as fast as you can.”

  My insides are on fire. I need to get out of the car. I cough again and turn to the major. “I didn’t say anything. Just clearing my throat. I must have caught a bug.”

  He scowls, turning his attention back to the driver. “Dale, más rápido.”

  With a silent thrust to the major’s throat, he crumples back in his seat. The driver can now concentrate on negotiating his way through the crush of people in peace and quiet. In fact, the man is so immersed in this task, I doubt he has any idea I’ve exited the vehicle.

  I blend in with the crowd, crouching down, and double-timing it away from the cruiser. “Who the hell is this?”<
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  “Samantha.”

  “Should that name mean something to me?”

  “Yes, it should.”

  Another voice comes over the com—it’s Liz, “Boss, who you talking to?”

  I edge my way through the crowd, dodging left and right, still distancing myself from the police vehicle. “Who else is on this channel? Liz, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  The unknown voice pipes up again, “Get to the hospital and talk to JoJo.”

  “Liz, did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Shit,” I yell, directing my anger at ComLink.

  Major Flores will be waking any minute. His poor driver will catch all kinds of crap from the major, but his problems are at the bottom of my list. On the top? The fact I’ll soon become a wanted fugitive. With my eyes peeled for police and security, I stay in the thick of the crowd, using them as human shields. When Flores wakes, he’ll probably assume I’m on my way back to the arena to be with my team. He’ll be wrong.

  I cross the Avenida de las Granjas in front of the arena and cut over the railroad tracks to the next street. I whistle down an approaching taxi. “Hospital Central Norte de Pemex, por favor.”

  “Si, señor.”

  I settle into the back of the cab and slam the door. “Liz, I need intel about Major Roberto Flores, the head of security at the arena.”

  “What kind of intel, boss.”

  “Anything you can get—everything. And Liz, tell me you can hear someone named Samantha using this channel.”

  “No, I don’t, but I am hearing a lot of local police chatter. It sounds like they’ve got a real hard on for you, boss. You’re the focus of a manhunt. What’s going on?”

  “Listen to me,” Samantha’s voice comes through loud and clear. “You’ve got to speak with JoJo. He isn’t who you think he is.”

  Everything she says sounds like gibberish. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Boss,” Liz says, “you’re not making any sense.”