True Allegiance

Behind Levon, the street exploded into chaos, protesters and rioters merging into one throng. The bearded white bear had disappeared into the center of the crowd, his body trampled, kicked, stomped, spit on. Hundreds of people gathered in a circle to watch, to participate.

On the outskirts of the riot, the motorcyclists revved their engines, fending off rocks and bottles. One motorcyclist pulled out a handgun and fired it into the air, scattering the crowd near him, but drawing a fusillade of debris from all quarters. The street broke up into a series of running battles, bikers leveling their weapons, avoiding firing into the crowd directly. One biker revved his engine and then plunged it directly into the center of the crowd, screaming, trying to reach his bearded comrade, who by now was lying motionless, blood streaming from his ear.

Someone handed Levon a crowbar, and he raised his powerfully muscled arms, then brought the crowbar down with brute force against the windows. After a few blows, they shattered, and he made his way inside.

The room was empty.

“Find O’Sullivan,” he growled as six of his men sprinted down the halls.

The detention officer unlocked the cell holding Ricky O’Sullivan, and it creaked back on its hinges. O’Sullivan backed up quickly into the corner, his bulk filling it.

“You leave me alone,” he said to the masked woman in the police uniform. She wore a bandanna over her face, and her gun was pointed directly at the head of the detention officer.

“Follow me,” Soledad said, the mask muffling her consonants. “We don’t have time to argue. You either come now, or you come later in a body bag. Can you hear that upstairs?” She motioned toward the ceiling, where the pounding thumps of running feet were clearly audible. “They’re coming for you. Aren’t they, kid?” The detention officer nodded. “And I don’t think they want to play patty-cake. Jim Crawford’s dead.”

For the first time, panic came over O’Sullivan’s face. “Who killed him?” he asked.

“Do you want to play twenty questions, or do you want to leave this building alive? Get your ass in gear.”

Soledad lowered her weapon. “No threats. Aiden said you don’t respond to threats. Silly me.”

At Aiden’s name, Ricky brightened. “Okay,” he said, “let’s go.”

Soledad forced the detention officer into the cell. “Hide under the bunk,” she said. “Hopefully they won’t have a key.”

Then she and Ricky took off down the hall.

“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” O’Sullivan asked.

“Motor pool,” she said. “We’re gonna get ourselves a vehicle.”

Behind them, at the other end of the hall, Soledad could hear the pounding footsteps nearing, the shouting, then a gunshot and more running feet, nearing. She and O’Sullivan crashed through the door to the stairs, sprinting, lungs burning, toward the basement.

Aiden was waiting for them in the covered garage, behind the steering wheel of a SWAT van. The back doors to the van were open, only about thirty feet from the stairwell. Soledad and O’Sullivan jumped in, slammed the doors closed, just as four young black men burst into the garage behind them. Two ran at the van; two more ran for motorcycles, searching for the keys.

Soledad pounded on the barrier to the van’s driver’s compartment. “Go!” she screamed. “Go! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

“Not without Ezekiel,” Aiden replied.

“What? He’s not here?!”

“He’ll be here any moment.”

Now two of Levon’s men had reached the van; one began slamming on Aiden’s window, while the other tried to pry open the back of the van. “Hold on!” Aiden shouted, throwing the van into reverse. The man at the back of the van shrieked as his head banged against the iron of the door; Soledad felt sick to her stomach at the bump as the wheels hit him. But Aiden kept backing up until there were just a few inches of room between the rear doors and the elevator next to the stairwell.

“Ezekiel’s coming,” Aiden said. “Any second.”

Now the man at the driver’s side window started pounding at the glass again, cracking it. Aiden calmly pulled out a .22 handgun, rolled down the window slightly, and fired. The bullet hit the man in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. “Stay down,” Aiden said quietly. “You’ll be fine.”

The elevator doors pinged, opened. Inside, Ezekiel sat on the floor, his mouth open, breathing hard—blood ran down the side of his police uniform. Soledad leapt out of the back doors, grabbed him by the arm. “Stay with me, Ezekiel,” she said. “We’re almost out. Almost free.” He grunted, threw his arm over her shoulder; O’Sullivan grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him into the van.

In front of the van, the two would-be motorcyclists had found keys somehow and swerved their motorcycles to block the exit. To get out, Aiden would have to go right through them. And they held handguns.

“Damn it,” said Aiden. Then he sighed. “No use for it, I suppose.”