Captive-in-Chief Page 5

  Joe backed up slightly.

  The cop was jumpy and not in a position to be challenged too strongly.

  “My connection’s in fifteen minutes!” came an angry shout from behind.

  “Calm dow—” Joe was thrust forward, unable to finish his sentence as the group behind him surged forward. Caught by surprise, he was thrust into the face of the young officer, who didn’t hesitate to jump back and draw his weapon.

  “Get back now!” he screamed.

  The other passengers rushed backwards, leaving Joe alone facing down the cop’s gun barrel.

  “No need for that,” Joe said, raising his hands carefully, noting the other cop was heading their way. He was older and from the fact he hadn’t drawn his weapon, far less jumpy than his younger colleague.

  “Whoa, what’re you doin’, man? The guy’s unarmed!”

  The shout came from behind the roadblock. A small group had rounded the corner and witnessed the young cop with the gun in Joe’s face.

  Joe counted as they approached, five in total, all wearing their t-shirts long and baggy, and their jeans somehow able to hold themselves up without the wearers’ assistance. Not a good sign. They were wearing belts and actually using them for the purpose they were intended. Only on this occasion that would probably aid their ability to stash their pistols in the waistband of their jeans. He had to assume all were armed.

  “You guys keep walking,” advised the older cop when he reached his colleague’s side.

  “What, so you can kill some more innocents?” said one of the group who, from the reaction of the members of his gang, was the leader.

  “Lower your weapon, Sam,” said the older cop.

  “What because they’re telling me to?” replied the younger cop, keeping his eyes on Joe, not recognizing the extent of the new threat.

  “Because your finger’s on the trigger and you’ve got the safety off!” said Joe, looking down the barrel of the pistol.

  The gang swaggered towards them.

  “Put your gun down now,” whispered the older cop angrily.

  Sam refused. “He came at me!” he said defiantly, staring at Joe, oblivious to what was happening around him.

  “What you say we help this old dude out?” asked the gang leader as his group surrounded Joe and the cops.

  “Move along guys,” the older cop urged. “I won’t ask you again.”

  The gang leader pulled out his piece, it was quickly followed by his four friends doing the same. He held it gangster style, aiming it at the young cop. The older cop had drawn his weapon as well, aiming it at the gang leader.

  “We ‘aint standin’ ‘round while you off another innocent!” preached the leader, gesticulating with his piece in true gangland style.

  Joe stood in the middle, gun barrels all around him. He nudged Sandy with his leg, indicating for her to move away. She stayed where she was, unlike the other passengers, who had moved back even further as the situation deteriorated.

  “Everyone, please remain calm,” Joe said. Whether his better senses were dulled by the bottle of bourbon or whether instinct took over, Joe wasn’t really sure. He hadn’t been in a situation like this one for many years yet it felt somehow…nostalgic. He smiled, and to those around him probably looked utterly insane.

  Fight or flight? Flight wasn’t an option. He was surrounded, although only one of the seven pistols were aimed at him. The odds were looking up. His hands were already raised, another plus. He looked directly into the eyes of the cop facing him; panic filled them. He had finally realized the situation he and his partner were in. Joe winked, the cop blinked, and Joe moved. He swept his hand down and with one fast and quick flick of his wrist, removed the young cop’s pistol and pointed it back at him.

  “Whoa, old dude’s got moves!” said the gang leader, bouncing up and down with excitement.

  “Dang, bro. That was some serious ninja shit!” said another gang member.

  The older cop knew he had lost control. His gun swung between the gang leader and Joe. The younger cop was pleading with Joe, his eyes saying more than any words could ever convey.

  “Would you guys mind if we made a move?” Joe asked the gang leader. “We’ve got buses to catch.”

  “Are you kidding me!” shouted the older cop.

  Joe looked around to the other passengers, only ten remained, the others having decided to get completely out of the area.

  “You’re going nowhere!” commanded the older cop, aiming his pistol firmly at Joe.

  The gang moved all their attention to the older cop, all five of their weapons directed at him.

  “You go get your bus, man,” said the leader. “We’ll deal with these dudes. Two less killer cops will do everybody some good.”

  The gang leader stepped over to the younger cop and placed his gun on his temple addressing the older cop. “Put the gun down, or your partner here won’t be your partner no more.”

  The older cop lowered his weapon although refused to relinquish it.

  “We got this,” said the gang leader ominously.

  “Do me a favor, wait until we’re out of the way before you do anything?” asked Joe, nodding towards his fellow passengers.

  “We’ve got some teaching to do before we do anything like that. Don’t worry, these bitches won’t be bothering you no more.”

  Joe waved for the remaining passengers to start walking, and they did so nervously, giving the gang and the police officers a wide berth. The elderly lady looked down at her case.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” said Joe. “I’m going to help these young gentlemen. Go ahead, quickly,” he urged, “you’re gonna miss your buses.”

  Joe stepped across to the older cop as the passengers scurried away, reaching out to take his pistol from him. The older cop pulled his hand away. Joe looked at him.

  “Give it up,” he said.

  “They’re going to kill us!” the cop pleaded.

  Joe shrugged. The gang leader laughed along with the rest of the gang.

  Joe spun round and punched the gang leader full force in the mouth. All had relaxed their stance, assuming Joe was on their side and the cops were disarmed. Hands began to rise, their pistols moving towards Joe. Sandy launched herself at one gang member, her teeth digging deep into his gun hand while Joe spun and dealt with another. A crushing roundhouse caught him on the chin and sent him crashing onto the sidewalk. The older cop, on a wink from Joe, brought his weapon up to bear.

  “Put the guns down!” He leveled his weapon at the two remaining gang members before they had a chance to aim their pistols. With their leader on the ground missing numerous teeth and another two writhing in agony, they did as commanded.

  Joe tossed the younger cop his pistol, picked up the elderly lady’s suitcase, whistled for Sandy, and walked after the group of passengers.

  “Hey!” shouted the younger cop.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Joe with a wave, not bothering to look back. He had a bus to catch.

  Chapter 11

  The Oval Office

  Clay was in his office at 2.47 a.m. Sleep had evaded him and he had spent the night trying not to think about the threats to his daughters. News channels were playing out the unrest across the nation. Major cities were struggling to cope with the vast crowds that had gathered to protest. It was no surprise the worst trouble spots were Atlanta, Georgia and Ferguson, Missouri as black Americans reacted to the senseless killings.

  “Mr. President,” said his Homeland Security Advisor, strolling into his office.

  “Bill,” said the president. “Can’t sleep?”

  “Nope, especially since it keeps getting worse.”

  “What now?”

  “The three young men executed in Ferguson.”

  “What about them?”

  “University students, unblemished records, not so much as a traffic violation between them.”

  “Oh dear God. Has the news broken yet?”

  A shake of Bill�
��s head confirmed Clay’s worst fears; it was going to get worse. The previous riots had been quelled to some extent by the questionable police record of the victim. That was no longer the case; these were three totally innocent young men executed in their prime while in handcuffs, by a white police officer.

  “Things were calming down, tonight I fear will be far worse though. The authorities were ready for it and managed to keep the unrest contained. Tonight…God only knows…”

  “I wish I thought you were wrong. Anything we can do?”

  “Unless the governors ask for our help, we have to leave them to it. Even then we’re limited. The Posse Comitatus Act prevents the use of military force for domestic law enforcement.”

  “I know, I know, I wish I could do more. The country is in turmoil and we’re sitting here helpless.”

  “We’ve got demonstrations in major cities, yes,” Bill said, “though it’s hardly nationwide. People aren’t taking to the streets in vast numbers.”

  “Not yet,” Clay said. “What happens when they hear the three young men were complete innocents, not that it’ll matter to some, they’d react whatever the case. We’re talking about the silent majority. What happens if they stand up? What if they say enough is enough? You know the statistics, why is it that nearly half of our prison population are black Americans, yet they account for only 13% of the population? A black American man has a one in three chance of spending time in a prison in his lifetime and is more likely to receive a tougher sentence than a white American found guilty of the same crime. There are more black men in prison than in college, and that is seriously worrying. We need to turn the tide and fix this, but how in the hell do we do that?”

  “Drugs, poverty, neighborhoods, education, you name it, we’ve studied the issues. There are countless reports that point to the fact it’s not a color issue.”

  “Yet our system sure as hell works like it is! Almost every crime stat you look at, black Americans top the charts. It’s the old saying…you’re not paranoid if everyone’s out to get you.”

  “So you’re saying we’re institutionally racist.”

  “Good God no. I’m saying I can understand the groundswell of feeling against the system and authority, though that sure as hell doesn’t make the protestors right. We need to invest in the youth, give them opportunities outside of criminality, give them role models to look up to and not ex-cons. Give them an education every bit as good as the one the rich white kids get.”

  “Where’s that money materializing from?”

  “That’s the multi-billion dollar question,” pondered Clay. “Whatever the case, none of that is an overnight solution.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “We do everything we can to protect the citizens, exactly what we have been elected to do.”

  “What about when that doesn’t work?” Bill asked somberly.

  That was something Clay wasn’t prepared to consider yet. He watched the footage from L.A. that was being beamed live on the TV. It was just after midnight there. Though the protestors were causing the police some problems, the police appeared to have it under control. News helicopters crowded the sky, desperate to find a major story. So far, only minor skirmishes were reported as the protesters were kept in line by overwhelming police numbers. The Ferguson news was going to break soon. When that happened, L.A. and the West Coast would explode, unlike the East Coast, where numbers had already dropped away as protestors having made their voices heard and headed home to bed.

  “Can you do me a favor?” asked Clay.

  Bill listened and nodded. He’d make it happen.

  Chapter 12

  The pounding of the music abated as the band exited the stage after their last song. It had been another spectacular performance by the world’s leading rock band. Tickets for the exclusive show at the Fox Pomona had sold out in less than a second, it was to be their most intimate tour date and a thank you to the venue for believing in them prior to their hitting it big. Only 1,700 lucky fans managed to get tickets for the Pomona gig. For the previous two years the band had exclusively performed multi-night stadium tours.

  Of the 1,700 only 200 had secured an invite to the after show party, a number due to their corporate ties, another fifty selected apparently at random from the fans. However if anyone were to ever isolate the selected fifty, they’d find them to be amongst the most attractive of the attendees, all female, and in their late teens to early 20s. The band liked to get to know their female fans much better and the more intimate the better.

  Zane Tate was the lead singer of the band and quite possibly the most famous and most recognized person in America. The band’s good boy image had ensured his face promoted at least one product in each of the major product sectors, whether it be Pepsi or Coca-Cola, Ford or General Motors. Whatever the sector, the major competitors knew that Zane would mean increased sales. Mothers and daughters loved him, while fathers and sons wanted to be him. America didn’t have a royal family, if they did, Zane would have been their one and only prince.

  “We’re a bit concerned,” said Brian, the band’s head of security, as Zane led his band offstage.

  Zane half listened as he walked, the good boy smiling image reserved for the public. In private, fame had consumed him, and his diva-esque tantrums and demands were a closely guarded secret. In short, whatever Zane wanted, Zane got.

  “What now, Brian? Is there a fourteen-year-old girl in the crowd that loves me so much she wants to kill me?”

  “No. There’s been some pretty nasty rioting across L.A. over the last few hours and it appears to be spreading. We’re thinking we should make a move now and abandon the balcony appearance.”

  “Just do your fucking job. You get paid to keep me safe, not to tell me what to do.”

  Brian hit the transmit button on his in-ear system and radioed to his team of ten security professionals. They looked after the band 24/7 and had been augmented by local security, stewards, and local law enforcement for the gig in Pomona. A number of scuffles had already been reported outside as fans queued to see the band in what was rumored to be an impromptu balcony gig for the thousands of fans who couldn’t get tickets. Brian didn’t like it although as Zane had made abundantly clear, Brian was paid to handle it, not like it.

  Zane moved towards the rooftop terrace where the after show party was already underway. He had his eyes on one girl. He’d spotted her in the queue on the way in and had asked for her and her friends to receive some of the special invites. Brian followed him while the rest of the band broke off. Their squeaky clean image was not the façade Zane’s was. Two were in long-term relationships, while the fourth member was married. Behind closed doors Zane partied hard and the younger looking the groupie the better. Two very quiet out of court settlements had already saved him from facing statutory rape charges and had made two young women very wealthy.

  Zane scanned the crowd from the doorway. He liked to see which girls he wanted before he entered. L.A. had some exceptionally beautiful girls, particularly the young, pre-plastic ones. There were over 300 people there, and his eyes focused on one. Older than his normal, but he had to have her. He had seen her previously, although never in the flesh. She was even more beautiful in real life.

  “Get her to my dressing room for after the balcony show,” he said, pointing out the blonde dancing with two friends.

  Brian followed Zane’s finger. He thought she looked familiar.

  “You’re joking, right?” he asked. His job was to keep him safe not get him laid. However, she was of legal age, the one thing he had been tasked by the management company to try and control after Zane’s two costly episodes with sixteen-year-olds.

  Zane walked into the bar and immediately became public Zane, his smile reappearing and his adoring fans drowning him with his much deserved adulation.

  He winked at the girl and looked to Brian. He expected Brian to do the work for him, have her waiting for him like a piece of meat after he had finished his s
how. Brian walked over as instructed and whispered in the girl’s ear, under the close eye of her friends and fellow partygoers.

  Her face burst into a smile. She was being invited back to meet the one and only Zane Tate.

  Zane watched the interaction as he fielded the adoration, noted the smile and look from her, then made his excuses to his fans and left. The anticipation of nailing her had him rushing back to get his band. As soon as the balcony gig was over he could enjoy the rest of the night.

  Brian caught up with them as they neared the balcony door. The chant “We want Zane,” had started as soon as the concert inside had finished. Sirens cut through the chants, and Brian radioed to a few men they had placed outside in the crowd.

  “All okay?” he asked.

  “There’s a strange vibe,” replied one of the security men, struggling to talk above the chants from the crowd around him. “It’s beginning to feel a little tense out here, the police are getting jumpy. There are reports of a few officers being attacked in L.A. coming through. Some of the crowd has been peeling away as the tension rises with others filling their spaces.”

  “The sooner we get this over and done with the better,” Brian said to Zane, and for once Zane agreed with him, although not for the same reason.

  Brian nodded to his security team, who filed out onto the balcony to a huge roar from below. The eight men arranged themselves at the far corners and, after a visual check below, gave the okay for the band to come out.

  Zane played up to the crowd below. The crowd surged forward when he appeared, held back by the makeshift barriers that lined the parking lot.

  Brian, a former soldier and cop, didn’t like it one bit. The scene below wasn’t right. The band’s following was predominantly young, affluent, aged 14–30, predominantly female, with a small male following. They were also without exception in the three years he had been with the band, almost entirely white. If he had to guess, he’d say 90% of every audience, even in far more mixed environments, were white. The first few rows of the audience fit the usual profile. Despite the band starting to play, fans were moving away. As his security officer had told him, as they moved out the spaces filled up. He looked to the back of the crowd at the newcomers. Almost entirely black, young males, probably 18 to 40, and most definitely not the normal demographic.