Captive-in-Chief Page 9

  “I don’t give a shit if you’re impressed or not, don’t move a muscle,” instructed Jodie reaching for her cell. She needed to call the cops.

  When Jodie’s eyes moved to locate her phone, Elsa didn’t hesitate, her right hand flashing upwards. Jodie saw nothing except the flash of movement. She didn’t notice the grip of the throwing knife Elsa’s hand connected with as it flashed past her beltline, nor the perfect trajectory that the knife followed through a 180 degree arc until it was too late. The four-inch blade buried itself into Jodie’s right eye. The look of astonishment barely registered on her face as her body collapsed and fell forward, the weight of her head driving the knife even deeper into her brain. Her body twitched violently as nerves reacted to their severing. Jodie’s life ended with a final twitch. Elsa stood up, licking the inside of her mouth.

  She belatedly donned her latex gloves, grabbed Jodie’s hair, lifted her head and delved into the eye socket. The knife had almost completely buried itself, she needed to get it out, for no other reason than it was part of her favorite set. A quick rinse in the sink removed the majority of brain and eye residue and she slotted the knife back into the inside of her beltline, completing the set of four once again. Only the tiniest of visible grip was noticeable.

  Ten minutes later, the narrative had been changed. The camera was in Elsa’s possession but photo-shopped images of the fire being started were on Jodie’s laptop for the authorities to find. The Sinaloa Cartel were going to take the fall, including for Jodie’s rape and murder. A rape that required the insertion of semen from the Sinaloa Cartel killer that they had kidnapped and killed shortly before Elsa visited Jodie. Obviously they couldn’t force him to rape her, he was already dead, but a sample had been extracted prior to his death. Remastered images of the Cartel hitman attempting to kill the president’s daughter had been created by a true digital artist. From the images, the resultant fire was now as a result of the hitman’s failed assassination attempt and would create outrage. What started as a tragic fire was going to be revealed as an assassination attempt against the president’s daughter. Combined with events still in the pipeline, it was going to be a bad night for the Sinaloa Cartel’s PR team.

  A high caliber bullet eliminated the knife track, along with the vast majority of Jodie’s face and head. The Sinaloa Cartel killer would never be found, other than his well documented DNA at the scene of the crime.

  By the time they had finished, it was a truly gruesome scene and an horrific end to a young mother’s life.

  Elsa called it in minutes after she left. It would take some hours for authorities to put it all together but the president’s daughter was in the clear. Despite their falseness, the photos would prove beyond all doubt her innocence and quell any rumors. Job done. Elsa felt a little sorry for Jodie. She was fast, resourceful, and given training would have been an excellent operative. But she was Latina and as such, untrustworthy in Elsa’s eyes.

  Chapter 23

  Joe wakened as the bus slowed on its approach into Atlanta. The evening traffic was, according to many of the passengers’ moans and groans around him, far worse than normal. A four-hour layover awaited them. He looked at the unopened bourbon bottle in front of him. His hands shook, his head was pounding, every ounce of his will was telling him to take a drink, a sip, anything. He had promised himself he’d last to Atlanta and reward his abstinence with a drink. Eight hours during daylight hours would be a personal record.

  An immense roar overhead took his mind away from the bottle. He looked out, leaning across and invading the young man’s space next to him without apology. A large plane swooped low overhead on its approach to what he could only assume was a nearby airport. A second roar followed shortly afterward, followed by another as they crawled along the freeway. In all, he counted six.

  “What airport is that?”

  “Hartsfield,” said the young man, happy that Joe wasn’t leaning over him any more to see out. Joe was sweating out the alcohol along with many other smells. After twenty-four hours on the road, he needed to freshen up.

  “That’s not a military airport, is it?”

  “Busiest commercial airport in the world,” replied the young man, a native Atlantan, as Joe had discovered over the course of the journey.

  Joe recognized the aircraft; he’d flown in them many times during his service. C5 Galaxies, the US military’s largest airlifter, and six had just landed at a major civilian airport. That wasn’t an everyday occurrence, or an any day occurrence. Six in one place at one time was definitely not normal. Certainly not at a civilian airport.

  The bus crept towards Atlanta’s downtown and their base for the next four hours. The roads cleared as they pulled off of the freeway and into the city.

  “This is weird,” said the young man. “It’s usually chaos at this time, the streets are deserted.”

  The bus sped through the streets with ease. As they neared the city center, the reason for the lack of more traffic became apparent. The nearer they got to the center the more police officers they saw until they neared the station, where police officers in full riot gear lined the streets. Atlanta was preparing itself for trouble on a major scale.

  With four hours to kill until their transfer, Joe and Sandy headed out into the city, Joe rewarding his outstanding achievement with a long pull on his bottle, while Sandy relieved her all too full bladder with just as much relief.

  Stepping out of the station had memories flooding back. Joe saw beyond the crowds of officers and reminisced at the thought of his last trip to Atlanta, over thirty years earlier. Good times with good friends, a time he had almost forgotten until the call from Clay. His life had been devoid of friendship for so long, memories of them were a welcome reminder of a better life. Though he barely recognized the city, the station was the same as when he’d used it decades ago on their illicit and secret trip. One that had resulted in the birth of Clay’s first daughter and the reason he reminded himself why he was back. He looked at the bottle of bourbon. He craved every fluid ounce but that young woman, conceived during one of the greatest few days of his life, needed him. She didn’t need a drunk Joe Kelly, she needed the Joe Kelly her father had called, the Joe Kelly that made promises that were worth their weight in gold and were delivered.

  Joe tossed the bottle into a nearby trashcan, walking on confidently before hesitating. Sandy was by his side, she looked up at him. Whether she had any idea what he was thinking, he had no idea, and couldn’t conceive how she possibly could, though the look she gave him provided the strength to walk on and not to look back at the trashcan. Sandy stuck like glue to his leg, her head raised, eyes locked on Joe, awaiting his every command. Joe reached down and patted Sandy, her tail wagged wildly.

  “You are one seriously smart mutt,” he said. He felt like crap, sweat poured from him in the humid evening heat, his head pounded, and his hands shook involuntarily. He needed a drink and failing that, a pharmacy.

  Looking up in search of a pharmacy, he noted even more officers. A nearby signpost indicated City Hall and the mayor’s office were merely a few blocks away, alongside the Capitol Building. A steady flow of people were walking that way, and he realized he hadn’t seen a car since leaving the bus station. They had obviously closed the roads. The number of people around him began to build. There was something happening ahead. Keeping his mind occupied helped abate his cravings, anything that would keep him from drinking was worth a try. He walked on, following the growing crowd, the number of people on the streets increasing dramatically as he neared City Hall.

  Sandy moved even closer to his leg as the crowds swelled. Large concrete barriers funneled the crowds into the center of the road, blocking access to the sidewalks and the shops that lined the streets. The barriers created a river bank as the crowd built and flowed, gaining more power with each new protestor. The police remained on the other side of the barriers, leaving the protestors to march unmolested towards City Hall.

  Joe was impressed with th
e concrete barriers between protestors and the police, which ensured no interaction while keeping the crowd under control. Three flows became one as the concrete barriers drove streets coming from the West, East and North southwards towards City Hall. Sandy was at knee height and becoming increasingly vulnerable to being kicked and stamped as the crowd built up. Joe picked her up and held her next to his chest as he was pulled along with the crowds. City Hall came and went with the concrete barriers failing to offer any break; they were being funneled beyond City Hall and the State Capitol to the large park area beyond, Capitol Green. The crowd spewed into the open area. Joe reckoned there were easily ten thousand already. There were two demographics represented in the crowd: students and African Americans, the latter being by far in the majority. Joe was one of a few middle-aged white Americans in the crowd. He detected anger in many of the voices, an unease that he knew was not going to be appeased by simply massing on Capitol Green. Concrete barriers lined this area as well, and the concrete-lined streets were the only exit to and from the area. The long channels with no outlet for blocks were surrounded by police officers in riot gear.

  It was an exceptional piece of protest management. It was also somewhere he didn’t need to be. He had already spent more time there than he had planned, thanks to the concrete barriers and the flow of people that had led him to the park. Joe turned and began to push against the flow that continued to fill the park. He was sure if it wasn’t for Sandy in his arms, he’d have gotten a lot more abuse. However, with a cute dog in his arms, the flow parted as they became aware of his passenger.

  “Thanks, too many people for her,” he offered as an excuse for his leaving, which replaced the looks of annoyance at his fighting the flow with a look of concern for Sandy.

  Before he reached the channel that would lead him back to the bus station, a klaxon boomed out across the swelling crowd.

  Three ear-bursting blasts killed all conversation and had every protestor searching for its source, which appeared to be the roof of the Capitol Building at the far end of the park.

  The crowd turned to face the klaxon.

  “We would request that all protestors please be aware that law enforcement agencies are doing everything within their powers to bring the killers of our mayor and the other victims we mourn to justice. Peaceful protest is and will be respected. Other methods of protest will not be tolerated. Please be aware that the new Black Panthers Group has been categorized as a terrorist organization.”

  Joe pushed on as the crowd digested the announcement. He noted a few of the crowd were wearing Black Panther t-shirts in support of the group. If the announcement was supposed to keep the crowd calm, it had completely failed. Voices that had sounded reasonable around him started to sound more angry.

  “Why are they saying that? Is that some sort of threat?” seemed to be gist of what most conversation suddenly were focused on.

  “Sorry,” said Joe, fighting the surge that had occurred since the klaxon sounded. People were more keen than ever to get into the park, thinking the klaxon was the beginning of the event.

  “Black lives matter!”

  “Justice for all!”

  The chanting began to replace the chatter.

  Finally the people flooding towards him eased, the klaxon had brought people rushing in. Probably not what the authorities had planned but it meant Joe could put Sandy back down and they walked back down the concrete channel they had entered from.

  Joe paused and look back at the crowd. It nearly filled the entire park area. If he had to guess, at least twenty thousand protestors had been corralled into the park to avoid them clashing with police officers in the streets. As it was, not one police officer was within the park area. The concrete barriers were doing an exceptional job and must have been a gargantuan task to move in place over the period of a day.

  However, as the last stragglers rushed past him to join the group, he couldn’t help feel the tension rise. It was palpable; many weren’t going to be content with a peaceful protest. News crews surrounded the area, elevated platforms allowing them a bird’s eye view of the crowd.

  “Come on, girl,” Joe urged. It was all too perfectly planned, even down to the klaxon and message that had been played.

  A young couple rushed towards him. “We’re not too late are we? The Facebook message said be here by eight.”

  Joe shrugged. He had no idea what Facebook was. All he knew was he had a couple of hours to find an open pharmacy and grab some food for himself and more importantly Sandy, before catching their next bus. In the center of Atlanta, one of the largest cities in America, it should have been easy. Walking back through the concrete-lined roads, any shops he could see over the barrier and behind the police officers were closed, their shutters down. The city was in lockdown.

  Joe wandered over to the concrete barrier, his height allowing him on tiptoes to see over the top.

  “I’m looking for a pharmacy!” he shouted to the officers.

  “Everything within five blocks of here is shut down. Beyond that you should find something.”

  “Impressive organization, should hopefully keep things calm.”

  The officer shrugged “Nothing to do with us, we’re out of the loop,” replied the frustrated officer, grumblings around him making it clear none of them were happy.

  “We’ve been told to stay behind the barriers unless ordered otherwise.”

  “You sound disappointed that there’s no trouble,” Joe remarked.

  “No, although it would be nice to think we were entrusted with policing our own streets.”

  “You are though,” said Joe, looking at the number of uniformed officers up and down the sidewalk ready for action.

  “No, we’re only back up,” the officer spat. “FEMA is running this show.”

  Joe knew who FEMA was, all too well. They had helped him and Sandy after storms had battered Corpus Christi the previous year.

  “I thought they cleaned up after disasters?”

  “Apparently they do more than that,” scoffed the officer, turning to his colleagues to continue their complaining amongst themselves.

  Joe continued on with Sandy, walking past the bus station and finding a pharmacy where it was made clear that without a prescription the best they could offer were numerous supplements, all outside his price range. He picked up some dog food for Sandy and cheap painkillers for himself, the best he could do with the few dollars in his pocket.

  Sandy barked when the first tremor rumbled beneath them. The noise of the powerful diesel engines followed quickly behind as the rumble grew. The sidewalk began to shake as the relentless drubbing noise of the engines grew louder.

  Joe bent down and comforted Sandy, who was desperately trying to understand why the ground was vibrating beneath her. Joe didn’t have an answer for her although he knew it was going to reveal itself shortly. The bus station was across the street but Joe thought better of attempting to cross over. Whatever was coming was about to turn the corner. He could feel the power, both in his feet through the ground vibrating beneath him and his chest pumping from the bass of the powerful diesel engines.

  Four vehicles turned as one, taking up the entire four lanes of the road. Painted a dark blue-gray, Joe didn’t recognize the exact model, they were definitely armored vehicles, ones he was sure he had seen being used in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria. This was serious military equipment. Another four vehicles followed behind the first four, and then row upon row followed behind. At first he thought they were mounted with large machine guns, but as they drew closer, he realized what he thought were guns were water cannons. The vehicles trundled on relentlessly, at walking pace, adding to their menace, more rows continuing to round the corner.

  The first vehicles drew level with him. FPS was emblazoned on the side - Federal Protective Service, an agency he’d never heard of. He had a good guess these were what the C5s were delivering. Sandy cowered behind him as the noise and power of the vehicles overwhelmed the area. T
he rows appeared one after another around the corner. Finally after fifteen rows, a gap appeared. Up until then the spacing between vehicles had been maintained with military precision and at a painfully slow pace. Finally, the last row. In total, sixty armored military grade trucks against a civilian demonstration. It was hardly a fair fight, each mounted with a water cannon and holding from their size, Joe guessed, up to twelve men each. It was impossible to tell due to the height of the vehicles and their heavily armored glass, if he had to guess, probably around 700 men in total. Whatever the case, the FPS were not messing around.

  If they were aiming to project menace, the slow speed certainly worked. However, the reason for their slow pace soon became blatantly clear. Despite the overwhelming noise of the engines, the sound of boots marching on the tarmac became clear. A wall of men in full riot gear were walking in a line the width of the four-lane road, turning the corner with military precision. Not an inch of exposed skin was visible, and their helmets, visors, and neck protectors gave no clue as to whether they were human or some kind of high tech robots.

  Marching in perfect unison, row upon row, perfectly spaced, each man was armed with a shield in one hand, a long baton in the other, and a holstered sidearm. FPS was stamped across their backs. Over one thousand men followed the sixty trucks containing approximately 700 men. Although outnumbered over ten to one by protestors, the protestors wouldn’t stand a chance. The men were so well protected, it was unlikely anything other than a bullet would have any effect on them. Even then, from the protective look of their outfits, that would have to be a well placed bullet.

  It was a show of force and Joe couldn’t help think a very orchestrated one. Somebody wanted to make a point. He wondered about the message that the couple had received to join the protest. He walked across to the bus station, where the TV was showing footage of clashes between protestors and the force that had passed by.