by Alex Cage
By then Petrak was out of the SUV and walking over to the group. The man with the low fade followed behind him.
Petrak opened his arms. “You guys made it,” he welcomed the two men.
The guy in the V-neck, looking around the man with the ponytail, replied, “Of course we made it—now, how about you tell Mr. Ponytail here to get out the way so we can talk business.”
Petrak looked at the guy wearing the ponytail and nodded. The man returned a nod before taking a few steps back.
“Okay… now we can get on with it,” the guy in the V-neck said.
“Is this the product?” the man with the surfer cut asked, pointing at the stack of containers.
Petrak eyed the suitcase he was carrying. “Is that the payment?” he asked.
The guy smirked and walked over to the man with the ponytail, handing him the suitcase before walking over and inspecting the contents of the containers.
In turn, the man with the ponytail walked over to the SUV, placed the suitcase on the hood, and unlatched it.
“It’s all there. Just like we agreed,” the guy in the V-neck assured Petrak.
“I’m sure it is—I mean, we’ve known each other for two years. But business is business, right?”
A couple of moments later, the guy with the ponytail walked to Petrak and whispered something in his ear. The man with the surfer cut did the same thing to his partner.
“So are we good?” Petrak asked.
“It appears so,” the man in the V-neck answered.
At the same time, Black noticed him covertly push a button on his watch. What’s up with that?
“Okay, so I guess that concludes our business,” Petrak said, turning and walking towards his ride. He made it to the door before the guy in the V-neck yelled to him.
“You’re not going to ask what we’re planning to do with it?”
“Excuse me?”
“The product, don’t you want to know what it’s for?”
“What do you mean? I already know what you’re going to do with it.”
The guy raised his chin, waiting to hear what Petrak was going to say.
“It’s seafood, you eat it,” Petrak grinned.
“That was some pretty aggressive seafood in New York, wouldn’t you say?”
Petrak walked back to the guy in the V-neck, looking him in the eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“C’mon, Petrak—”
“Look, I told you, I didn’t have anything to do with that. You’re the first person I dealt this type of… seafood to. Furthermore, I can’t be held responsible for what the buyers do with the product.”
The guy in the V-neck shook his head.
“That concludes our business. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to see you again,” Petrak said, walking once again to his vehicle.
Before Petrak reached his door, a loud slap resounded throughout the parking level. The stairwell door was flung open and five men in SWAT gear swarmed inside. Four more marched up the ramp, all with MP510s drawn.
Black quickly dropped to one knee in the shadows behind the column, hidden.
All of the armed men were dressed in dark clothing from head to toe and wore bulletproof vests that read FBI, as well as tactical helmets and masks. All except one. This particular man had no helmet or mask. He was in slacks and a dress shirt, covered up by a bulletproof vest with DIA written on it. He looked familiar, but Black couldn’t quite place him.
“Get on the ground!” one of the FBI agents ordered Petrak and the group as the armed men surrounded them.
Four of the five immediately knelt and crawled to their bellies, placing their hands behind their heads. Petrak remained standing, hands in the air, eyes bulging, mouth gaping.
“Get on the ground!” the agent repeated.
Petrak stepped back, gaze wandering, hands still in the air, mouth still open.
The agent allowed his rifle to drape to his side and grabbed Petrak, pushing him face first into the SUV before removing a white zip tie from the front pouch of his bulletproof vest.
Black slipped out of the shadows and quietly entered the stairwell, unseen. He exited the stairwell the same way he entered, turning at the corner of the parking garage and jogging up the sidewalk a good distance before slowing to a normal walking pace. The street didn’t have many lights and there were a few small commercial buildings and offices on either side, most of which appeared to be vacant. Periodically checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed, Black made it nearly a block from the parking garage before he saw a figure walking towards him. It was an FBI agent. Great, I can’t run—it’ll look suspicious. The agent had the same tactical gear and the same weapon draped around his shoulder as the rest of his team.
Black’s plan was to walk on, keeping his distance and pretending he was a scared citizen concerned for his life, considering the agent had a gun and all, but he didn’t have a chance to execute this plan. The agent aimed his MP510 at Black at close range.
“Hey, you, ha—hands in the air!” he instructed Black.
Black immediately did as he was told. “What’s going on?! Are you a cop or something?” he faked, turning his body at a slight angle to make himself a smaller target.
“I’m F—FBI, don’t you move!”
“FBI? What do you want with me?”
“Quiet!” the agent barked, glancing over his shoulder. “Over here I hav—” he attempted to yell.
Black instantly pulled the gun from his grasp. The rifle was strapped around the agent’s body, so the force from the pull tugged him along. Black struck him in the face before hip-tossing him onto the pavement back first, then arching over and putting him to sleep with another punch to the face. Before Black could formulate his next move, the scuff of two distinct footsteps hit his ears. He looked in the direction the agent initially came from and saw two dark silhouettes running toward him. He dashed across the street to an old vacant storefront, pushing the door open as he entered. Dust and a musty odor entered his nose. Coughing, he fanned the dust from his face and continued into the building. He immediately scanned the room and noticed a smashed countertop, shelves thrown on the floor, and a hallway in the back. He could hear footwear skipping over the pavement behind him, growing louder with each step. He hustled into the back, high-stepping the shelves on the floor. In the hallway were three doors: an exit door, a swinging impact door, and close to the exit, a bathroom door. Black rushed to the exit door and flung it wide open before ducking into the bathroom, gently pulling the door shut behind him.
Inside the bathroom was a broken sink, mirror, and toilet bowl. The floor was tiled some ugly shade of blue with mildew growing between the cracks. A crashing sound vibrated against the bathroom wall. Two seconds later, Black heard footsteps shoot through the hall and out the exit door. He zipped out of the bathroom and into the main room again. There was another agent fully clothed in tactical gear lying stunned across one of the shelves on the floor. The man groaned, looking up at Black. The agent’s gaze moved to the gun that he himself had dropped. He then looked at Black once more. It was as if he was asking for permission to pick up his own rifle. Black shook his head. The agent attempted to lurch towards his gun, but his face met with the sole of Black’s boot. The man rolled over the broken shelf, smacking into the wall. Black darted out of the storefront and up the sidewalk, in the direction he’d been heading before. He made it twelve yards from the storefront. Passing an alley, he heard a man’s voice.
“Freeze!” the voice demanded.
Black was certain there was a gun aimed at his back, so he stopped.
“Put your hands up!”
Black inched his hands up. “You know, this is the second time today a gun has been pointed at my back.”
“Well, aren’t you a special guy? Now, turn around slowly,” the man said, his footsteps moving closer.
Black spun around and his gaze dropped. Seeing some d
ressy shoes and slacks, he continued sliding his eyes upward. The man was wearing a long-sleeved button-up shirt covered by a vest with the logo DHS. What’s up with all these different agencies? he thought, proceeding finally to the man’s face. Black’s neck extended forward, his eyes narrowed, and his forehead wrinkled. He had seen this man before.
The man had the same look on his face as Black, and his head flinched back softly when their eyes met. “Orlando Black. We’ve been looking for you.”
Black shook his head slightly, processing the man’s face before the name came back to him. “Agent Toben,” he finally announced.
“How do you know my name?” Toben asked, Smith & Wesson still aimed at Black.
“I did some research on you—well, only a little.”
“Well, we’ve done a lot of research on you.”
“We who? DHS, FBI, or DIA?”
“All of the above.”
“Look, Toben, from what I read, you seem to be on the up and up. I’m not your guy.”
“You’re not my guy for what? Do you have something you want to tell me?”
“Don’t play games. I had nothing to do with those bombings. Someone’s trying to cover their tracks.”
Toben’s eyebrows dropped. “Really? Who?” he asked, wetting his lips.
“If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be standing here with you, now would I?” Black said, looking Toben in the eyes. “Wait, you know there’s something wrong, don’t you?”
“I tell you what, let’s talk all about it at headquarters, okay?”
“That’s not happening.”
“Excuse me?”
“Someone wants me silenced, and whoever it is, they’re connected. So until I find out who’s after me and why, I’m not allowing any three-letter agency to take me anywhere.”
Toben huffed. “You don’t have a choice, Black,” he said, keeping the gun on Black with one arm and reaching to his side with the other. He lifted a pair of handcuffs. “Cuff yourself,” he instructed Black, tossing the handcuffs at him.
The moment before the cuffs left Toben’s hand, Black saw an opening. As Toben extended his arm to throw the cuffs, his pistol aim shifted from Black a few degrees. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Black to close the gap between the two of them. Toben swung his shooting arm back on target, but it was far too late. Black chopped his opponent’s forearm with one hand and thrust the edge of his palm into his gut with the other hand. Both the Smith & Wesson and the handcuffs fell, clanging on the sidewalk. Toben craned over, moaning and clutching his stomach. Black grabbed the back of his head and rolled him to the pavement on his back.
He picked up Toben’s gun and aimed it at him. “Like I said, I’m not going anywhere.”
Toben rolled to his side, looking up at Black. “So you’re going to assault and kill a federal agent, Black?” he gasped, out of breath.
“I think you know that’s not my style.”
Toben said nothing.
“Give me your phone,” Black said, holding out his hand.
“Why would I do that? You already said you’re not going to shoot me.”
Black shrugged. “No, I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t kill you. Now give it here,” he said, fanning his fingers.
Toben reached into his pocket and removed his cellphone.
“Make sure it’s unlocked,” Black added.
Toben tapped at the screen and extended the phone to Black.
Black, keeping the gun trained on him, walked closer, reached down, and snatched the phone. He stepped back and pressed at the phone, holding it in his hand until he felt a vibration in his pocket. He ended the call and chucked the phone at Toben. The phone landed on his leg. Black checked his own phone and saw a missed call from a number with a San Francisco area code. “There, now we have each other’s phone number. Don’t bother trying to track mine. It’ll be a waste of your time.”
Toben kept quiet, looking at Black with squinted eyes.
“I’ll call you tomorrow with a time and place where we can meet and talk,” Black said, ejecting the magazine and clearing the chamber before dropping it all in front of Toben.
Observing Toben’s gaze follow the gun and magazine, Black wasted no time. He bolted away up the sidewalk, making a right across the street and into an alley. At the far end of the alley was another street. He raced up that street another six blocks before heading right onto a busy avenue. Cars crowded the road and patrons were going in and out of stores and restaurants. He blended with the other pedestrians, walking half a mile before he found a four-star hotel. It didn’t have the amenities of the establishment where he had stayed the night before, but he figured it would do.
11.
BLACK SPENT SEVEN hours lying in the bed, though he slept only five of them. The remaining two he used to review all the information he had gathered. He conjured up the faces and names of all the players. He thought about the different locations where he saw them and what their interest in the situation might be. Some things became clear, but there were still many holes that needed to be filled. Black played different scenarios in his head, thought about his next move, and tried to decide how he should proceed.
He sighed, rolled out of the sheets and to the floor on his palms, and performed two hundred push-ups. Next, he rolled to his back and performed the same number of sit-ups, before concluding with some breathing exercises and tai chi forms. The bathroom was his next stop. He undressed and jumped into the shower, putting on the same clothes and heading to the lobby after he had finished. The lobby was quiet with only a few people in it. The aroma of toast and pork hit his nose as he walked into the dining area, where he found a continental breakfast bar. He grabbed a plate and scooped some yellow runny substance that passed as eggs onto it, along with hash browns and a couple of sausage patties. He stopped at the fruit bowl and snagged a banana, then at the small fridge to grab a bottle of water before sitting at one of the open tables.
Just as he began to eat, loud voices and chatter flowed into the dining area. A few teenagers entered, making a beeline to the food bar. A smaller kid, five or six years old, followed, and behind him a young mother. The group paraded around the food bar, stacking their plates, and scampered to a table. The teenagers walked past Black and found a table at the far corner. The small kid stomped through the dining area while his mom followed with plates of food in hand. The kid had his arms folded and his bottom lip poked out.
“Find a place for us to sit, Christopher,” the mother said.
“No!” the little boy pouted.
“Let’s sit here,” his mother instructed, taking a seat at a table. “Christopher, come sit down.”
“No! I hate you!” Christopher yelled with his back to his mom.
Everyone in the dining room looked at their table.
The mother gaped and rubbed her forehead. “Why would you say that? I’m sorry, come here.”
Did she really just say she was sorry? How did she fix her lips to say that? Black was wondering.
“No!” Christopher said as he approached a random woman’s table and snatched one of her sausage patties. The woman gasped.
Christopher’s mother raced over and grabbed him. “I’m so sorry!” she apologized, pulling the kicking and hollering kid away from the table.
The woman huffed, shaking her head in disapproval.
I know that couldn’t have been my sausage patty, Black was thinking.
The little kid calmed down and once again walked away from his mother, ignoring as she called for him. He romped from table to table until he got to Black.
He reached his hand towards Black’s plate and received a gentle slap on the hand for his efforts. The boy jerked his hand back and rubbed it. The next moment his bottom lip jutted out, eyebrows dropped, eyes squinting.
Black watched him the entire time. “I don’t care if you make an ugly face,” he said.
The kid hung his head, turned from Black’s table, and ran over to his mother, fake cry
ing.
Black shrugged and finished his breakfast.
It was a matter of seconds before the boy’s mom stomped over to Black’s table, dragging Christopher along. “Excuse me, did you just hit my son?” she asked in a raised voice, approaching him from the side.
Black kept his eyes straight ahead. “I would hardly call that a hit, but yeah, and you’re welcome.”
“Welcome? For making my son cry?”
“Those are crocodile tears. I know it, he knows it, you know it, and everyone in this dining room knows it.”
“Maybe the law should know about you hitting other people’s kids.”
Black laughed. “Or maybe they should know about you teaching your son to steal food from strangers,” he said, shaking his head.
The mother paused for a moment. “Wh—what…? I—I didn’t tell him to steal anything.”
“But you know taking from others is wrong, right? You can teach by negligence too, you know?” Black said, sipping from his bottled water.
“I’m not negligent. I pulled him away.”
“After the fact. After you practically allowed him to do it,” Black finished, turning to face her.
The woman was quiet for a moment, eyes dropped. “Well, do you even have kids? Probably not—they wouldn’t like you.”
“No, I don’t have kids, but if I did my main priority would be raising them right, not trying to get them to like me.”
“Well now, my son probably wouldn’t want to be around you or anyone who looks like you ever again.”
“Yet I’m not the one he said he hated.”
The woman gave Black a hard stare but said nothing. She stormed out of the dining room, pulling little Christopher along with her.
Black checked the time and sat at the table another five minutes before checking out of the hotel. Outside, the sun shone in a cloudless sky. The streets were busy with the honking of vehicle traffic and the scuffing of foot traffic. Black walked seven blocks to a bus station and rode the bus to Uptown Oakland, where he entered another bus that took him to the Mission District in San Francisco. He exited the bus and walked to a corner restaurant which was also a bakery and cafe, observing as people flocked in and out before stepping inside the restaurant himself and taking a slap to the face by the aroma of coffee and baked bread. The inside was chatty but roomy. There were a number of tables occupied but still many available. Black lifted a menu from near the register and committed both the name and address to memory before laying it back on the counter and walking outside.