True Allegiance

He grabbed her by the arm and pointed toward the edge of the house, where four motorcycles skidded to a hard stop. Soledad pushed herself forward, trying desperately to block out the screaming. The gunfire continued near the helicopter site as a few of the bikers fired on those trying to help their wounded friends. “You’ve got to stop them,” she told Foster. “Make it stop.”

“I can’t,” Foster said. “It’s too late for that. You know that.”

Foster bodily picked her up and put her on a motorcycle behind one of the militiamen. She clung to his leather jacket as he twisted the throttle and peeled out, spinning his wheels before they caught hard ground, the bike leaping forward. Foster followed on his own motorcycle.

“Don’t look back,” Soledad whispered to herself. “Don’t look back.”

But she did, just long enough to see, in the distance, some of the flaming men go out, leaving nothing but smoking chars of flesh.

Levon

Detroit, Michigan

LEVON FELT THE AIR AROUND him crackle with energy. It was something he had felt before, just before a fight—the switch that went off in the brain that notched the senses higher, made them more sensitive. The adrenaline flowing through the veins. The feeling that you’d burst from the inside out if the fight didn’t commence, and right quick.

This felt like those fights multiplied exponentially.

That’s because Levon knew that he wasn’t alone this time. It wasn’t him taking on some gang rival or him debating some white Republican Club sucker at the U. This was going to be flames and blood and struggle and power. This was going to be death and mayhem and hope and glory. This was going to be fucking big.

All Levon needed was the cue.

He’d discussed the cue ahead of time with the reverend. It would come on television, during a press conference Big Jim planned to hold with the mayor in the aftermath of the Kendrick Malone killing. The killing of another young, innocent black man at the hands of the racist white establishment. The police targeting a kid—an unarmed kid, for God’s sake!—just because he happened to be black and happened to be out at night at the wrong time.

That shooting had worked out precisely according to the plan.

Levon had one of his boys give little Kendrick a $20 bill to go and harass the cop. Kendrick, of course, thought it was just a piece of good, clean fun—messing with white cops was a rare joy, made you feel like more of a man. And with all the big boys telling him how he’d be a boss in the neighborhood if he baited the cop, he’d been enthusiastic. He probably looked forward to coming home and telling his buddies how he’d told that cracker ass pig to go to hell—stared right at him and cursed him to his face, made the pig back down. Kendrick knew he was supposed to go for his toy gun. They told him it would be a joke, that the cop wouldn’t do anything, that the cop would pussy out.

Of course, Levon knew better. No cop could sit still when somebody went for the waistband. Police procedure dictated what happened next.

Levon made sure of one other thing, too: the only working camera at the gas station had the right angle. No sound. Stark spotlight on the two main characters. The blood, black in the black-and-white footage, seeping from the poor black boy. O’Sullivan sitting down, stunned. The other cameras, he’d had smashed or deactivated. One angle, one tape, one million replays on nightly news.

The headline writers couldn’t help themselves. “8-YEAR-OLD UNARMED BLACK BOY SHOT DEAD BY WHITE COP,” blared the Free Press. “MURDERER!” screamed the headline on the New York Daily News. CNN headlined the case the entire day, and the next one as well. Over on MSNBC, the talking heads could barely conceal their excitement. On Fox News, a few anchors urged caution while others talked of the legacy of racist policing across the country.

The president of the United States quickly sounded off on the case. He couldn’t help himself; Mark Prescott hijacked his White House press secretary’s gaggle, took to the podium, and told Americans that “the time has come for a great racial conversation in this country. Too many black boys have been murdered merely for the color of their skin. This must end.” He announced that he would be sending his attorney general to Detroit to ensure that the local investigation proceeded according to law. “We’ll ensure that justice is done for the family of Kendrick Malone. This is America, where there’s justice enough for everybody, if we have the bravery to pursue it.”

And now Levon waited.

He waited outside Coleman A. Young Municipal Center, named after the former mayor of the city—a man who’d been a racial pro in his own right. Fitting that old Coleman could make one more sacrifice in the name of racial justice. He’d be doing that tonight, if all went according to plan.