Chapter Three
We as men of color have put ourselves in a poor position to demand anything from anyone. So we must first and foremost always practice self-respect, self-restraint, and self-reliance. Responsible behavior commands admiration from our families, our communities and our countrymen as a whole. Only a righteous man may seek retribution for the rooster’s sins that he has committed against our brethren.
-Isaac Prince, leader of a House in Chains in July 1976
Chris
Fox Theatre, Midtown Atlanta, 2nd Day
He realized that the events that had transpired first thing this morning had mirrored the final, traumatic events of the previous night. He wished, not for the first time that these events have fared differently— without the loss of life especially, and yet the civilian…the human inside of him wished he’d attempted to run to freedom with the one female who had made it out alive.
A pregnant woman and her mother had used the need to go the bathroom as their excuse to disappear out of sight for a few minutes. The lounge in front of the ladies bathroom bore a fountain for decoration sitting in front of it. There was a pool of blood now flowing along with the water. A significant trail of blood and brains and marrow led back to the great room he and the other hostages were being held.
In his mind’s eye, Chris could see that woman’s mother stuffing her daughter, who was in the latter stages of her pregnancy, out of one those windows in the bathroom. But you folks took too long. Pandora became suspicious. They sent a guard to find you. Agent Christopher Prince remembered hearing the shots clearly. He also remembered feeling knots tie in his gut when two of these guards drug the mother’s limp corpse back into the great room.
The next thing that transpired next frightened him worse.
Luna Belle, who he had come to recognize as the second in command of this operation, fired a handful of rounds into an already dead body as an act of imitation. It worked. Chris could see the shift in attitudes from the hostages. It wasn’t about the pleas and prayers for mercy, or even at the maddening screaming at the act of horror they’d all witnessed, but an overall sense of hopelessness and dread that fell over the crowd was like a dark cloud hovering above the theatre. The hostages thought they might die before. They knew it now.
“Prince,” He heard a voice whispering his name.
He didn’t look around right away. Instead, he got a feel for where the dozen gunmen…or women were. All of the Pandora agents involved in the operation, with the exception of the leader, were all women. That is one reason they took this building with such little resistance. Who would have expected a group of ladies who had gone out for an evening show capable of such violence they’d truly had the element of surprise on their side. In fact when they begin roping in from all areas of the theatre, Prince, like many others in attendance, thought the act was part of the show. They looked like bats flying around a belfry.
Chris turned around at last to put a face to the voice that called his name.
“My people are positioned the best they can be under the circumstances, they are prepped, and ready to counterstrike on my command.” The man said, Chris cursed to himself, unable to place the other’s name with the dark, hard face hovering ten feet in front of him. “Are you with us?”
“Your people,” Chris made the statement a curse. “No. Call off whatever you have planned. There are too many guards here and they are armed with semiautomatic and fully automatic weapons. What you are planning is nothing short of suicide, not only for your followers, but these innocent civilians as well.”
Special Agent Christopher Prince:
He was of average height and was 39 years old now. He’d gained twenty pounds around his middle but most friends thought he carried the extra weight well; which means that I look worse than I already thought. He was one shade darker than midnight, his shading so absolute and finite it was almost beautiful in its own opaqueness. He was clean shaven from his Adams Apple to the nape of his neck: No mustache, no goatee, and no eyebrows; No hair of any type adorned his skin.
The other man rested his weight on his elbows before laying all the way back on the floor and closing his eyes for a moment. His people, Chris thought. Okay, so you’re one of the Peacekeepers…no…you’re something, somebody even further up Xavier’s chain of command than even that.
“I only wanted to know if you stood with us or not. I wasn’t asking for a tactical analyst of the situation or your consent, Agent Christopher Prince.”
“You know who I am?”
His smile betrayed the confidence of someone who was in clear control of the conversation. He reopened his eyes, carefully pulled a penny from his pocket and began tossing it up once and then again and again. “Number One suggests that the other members of The Circle familiar ourselves with all of our adversaries. Even if one of the antagonists is his own flesh and blood. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, especially tonight. How are you holding up?”
Chris finally put a name to a face and cursed in a low voice. “You’re Morgan aren’t you, Quincy Morgan?” He scanned the room’s perimeter to update himself on the female guards positioning. The hostages had been allowed to converse amongst themselves but Chris wasn’t willing to risk them spying in on this conversation. He lowered his voice until it was damn well soft and faint as if he were singing a lullaby to hush a crying baby. “You are The House in Chains Sargent at Arms, and the number three in command of The Circle. Well, at least that’s the hypothesis being shared back at the field office.”
Morgan nodded.
Quincy Morgan:
He was an olive skinned black man who Chris thought was the picture of fitness and all the handsome features of Man of Color could wish for. He had big thoughtful eyes, a clean shaven face, an expensive diamond stud in each ear and a fresh haircut. He kept tossing that penny in the air once and again and again. You don’t come off as the nervous type, Quincy; the experienced investigator inside his gut told Chris, that penny represents unfinished business with something…or someone. I’d give a king’s ransom to know who. Chris found himself staring at the other man’s physique longer underneath his silk shirt longer than he intended, hoping Morgan wouldn’t take his interest as anything sexual. I was you once, Quincy. Instead, he was again reminded that how he was bulging along his own midsection. In fact he’d made an appointment and finally seen his private doctor a few days earlier. The follow up appointment was scheduled for today. He’d been from suffering occasional stomach pains and his energy level hadn’t been up to his usual standards.
Concentrate on the present, he told himself. The holding area stank of piss and other waste as the remaining hostages had been forced to urinate in the flower pots that were located within. Again, Prince reminded himself they’d been allowed conversation and even some movement, but they were encouraged to keep their voices low and absolutely forbidden from standing up. A weighty gentleman asked for permission to approach one of the makeshift toilets, one of the lithe shaped guards sneered, patted him down, and used her rifle to point him towards one of the flower pots.
Chris thought it ironic that this room was designed to give life to a recreation of the temple for Ramses II, the Egyptian Pharaoh who set Moses and the Hebrew nation free only to hunt them down, if the old Bible story could be believed. Now, today, mostly People of Color were waiting to be set free from this building.
Quincy Morgan scooted along the floor past of two sobbing young women and found an open spot amongst the humanity, and sat next to Chris. One of the female guards took notice, but seemed more interested at the length of her fingernails at that moment. Chris only offered her a moment’s glance in return. He only had eyes for Luna Belle and another man Chris had recognized immediately when he first laid eyes on him last night: Benny Stanton, a former ATF guy who Chris had worked together with on an investigation in Alabama a few years back when the latter man was still on the right side of the law.
Luna Belle:
She was an
angular and lissome shaped blonde whose hardened gaze seemed fixed permanently on her face.
Benny Stanton:
He was of late middle age with white blonde hair, deep blue eyes and spoke with tied tongue.
When Morgan settled next to Chris the Special Agent said, “My brother would advise against whatever you are planning, Quincy.” Chris said.
“Perhaps,” Morgan said and pushed the penny deep down into his pocket. “We are outnumbered and outgunned, but I take using my small advantages where I can find them. And since you people believe in the chain of command, you’ll understand when I say I’m going to use my seat in The Circle to advocate change to our current status as helpless sheep.”
“Stanton should have issued their demands by now. The wolf wants something or we would all have been killed last night during the initial siege. Yes, they would have all been killed like poor Catherine over there. Chris Prince’s date had been mowed down by the indiscriminate automatic weapon’s fire during the first few minutes of the attack. It was a precipice of the siege. The gunfire was designed to start a mass of people running in a single direction so that Stanton’s team could better control them.
I’m so sorry, Catherine. I never even knew your family name, but it doesn’t mean that I won’t mourn for you when the time is right. He gave her slender figure, her corpse lying face down in a pool of her own blood, one last respectful glance before he turned his attention back to Morgan.
“Negotiations won’t favor these hostages.” Morgan stopped and cursed. “I believe Stanton is acting independent of Serena’s authority.” Chris failed to mask his reaction. “I see you believe that as well. Tennyson’s orders run more direct and straight forward than this operation is being carried out. You were right when you said we should have all been killed last night like that woman you knew lying over there. We weren’t. This whole siege is about the release of James Carter. Stanton is tight with him. They’re trying to exchange the lives of these hostages for the freedom of that racist son of a bitch.”
Chris nodded, Morgan sharing most of his views as well. “Alright, will whoever is still in charge of The Circle release him to Stanton’s custody?”
The veins in Morgan’s neck rippled and he swallowed hard. Yet, there was a sadness that clouded his eye, if only for a second. There had been a change in leadership on The Circle. Chris could feel it. “We are no different than your FBI brethren, Agent Prince. We don’t negotiate with terrorist.” And then for the first time since this conversation began, Morgan looked away. “Anyway, we don’t have Carter or know of his exact whereabouts.”
“Great.”
In the meantime Stanton and Luna Belle nodded at one another, looked directly at the two men, seemingly coming to some type of agreement on how to proceed with an urgent matter. Two of the brunette guards met them along the route and escorted them through the hall of the great room, parting the frightened hostages who gasped and ducked their heads as the group approached and then passed them by, afraid that they would halt their progression where they sat and would had singled them out for execution.
The group headed straight in line to where Special Agent Christopher Prince and Sargent at Arms Quincy Morgan were seated.
“Listen to me, Chris, because we don’t have much time left. Your brother loves you.” Morgan said. “Men of Color don’t express these feelings to one another enough. I will protect you. He would want that. I’ll make sure that our true enemies regret what they’ve done here today.”
In his mind’s eye Chris could see an embodiment of himself last night. When he first heard the shots rang out and people around him started dying, he’d silently vowed that somehow—someway he would find a way to survive the madness.
Chris Prince had decided that he was going to live.
He was a highly trained FBI Agent, but that hadn’t numbed him from his human traits of fear and anxiety. Life was God’s most precious gift. He wasn’t going to throw his away over a hyper sensed sense of duty or arrogance, or stupidity. He had tossed his concealed weapon into a nearby flower arraignment after a counterattack seemed implausible last night. The location was far enough away that if the gun were found that it couldn’t be tied directly to him, yet close enough to make a run at it if his life depended on its use.
Now he knew he wouldn’t reach the weapon in time.
Stanton stalked over him while the women made a perimeter around him. There would be no escape. “Choo are Christopher Prince. Choo are guilty of being a FBI Agent, choo are guilty of being the lone sibling of our sworn enemy, Xavier Prince, and frankly, choo are guilty of being the unluckiest bastard I know.”
“I am.” He carefully said in response. “I am all of those things.”
Luna Belle stepped in front of Stanton in one, smooth motion and pointed the barrel of her automatic weapon at his forehead. “You will come with me.”
“Where,” Chris raised his hands, but struggled to keep fear out of his tone. “Where are you taking me?”
Luna Bell disengaged the safety on her trigger in another smooth motion. “You will get you ass up and you will come with me with no questions asked, Agent Prince, or you will die right here, right now, in front of all these people.”
Morgan said, “Why wait?” And then his voice boomed throughout the great room. “What are you waiting for woman? Kill him now.”
What are you doing, Quincy? Why—
Stanton snorted and joined Chris in rolling his eyes at the other man. “Chiss matter doesn’t concern choo, sir. Obviously we are all under a great deal of stress, but why don’t choo dial it back a notch and try to relax.”
“You are beyond incompetent! Serena should have taught you never to make threats that you are unwilling or unable to carry out.” Morgan stood and waved his arms long and wide like a maniac. “The only way to maintain your control over such a large crowd is through fear. You need to do what you say you will do. If you are to kill this man, then do it right now!”
The hostages went into fervor. There were spasms of crying and one woman screamed for her God to save her. Even the two men who Chris had seen engaging in friendly conversation with Morgan earlier, looked at him with trepidation and uncertainty now.
Belle had had enough and turned the barrel of her weapon away from Chris to a newer, slender target. “Shut up.” She cursed Morgan. “Sit down and shut up or I’ll—“
“Kill me?” Morgan’s laughter roared through the ball room, the hallways, throughout the entire Fox Theatre. Perhaps all of Atlanta heard the man mocking these two to their faces. “I am Quincy Morgan, Sargent at Arms of a House in Chains and I am already dead. Do what you will with my remains. I have taken the mark. I have visualized my people’s future and I see days filled with misery and pain.”
Chris studied Stanton and Belle as they breached their own protocols and openly argued about how to proceed in front of all the others. He scanned his perimeter and saw the female guards shifting in their stances as if their boots won’t hold them in place much longer. He prayed that Quincy won’t go for Belle’s gun, but prepares himself to disarm Stanton or whichever of the guards poses the most immediate threat and defend these remaining hostages if this situation continues to erode or die trying.
Stanton announces his decision with a tenacity that dares anyone to challenge his authority. “Cheeze that man,” One of the women guards points her weapon at Morgan’s skull while the other uses the barrel of her gun to nudge him towards the back of the room.
“The rest of you strip down, right now.” Luna Belle commanded.
Stanton raises a brow embedded more in curiosity than in anger as his second ushers the command again with more urgency. “What are choo looking for, Luna?”
“I want to know if any more of our guest have taken the mark.” Belle’s tone takes on a more respectful tone. “We should isolate members of A House in Chains from the rest of our captives and execute them first if our demands aren’t met in a timely manner by the FBI.”
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Stanton nods silently in agreement.
Christopher Prince struggled to hold his trembling hands still as he is forced back into sitting position while he watches Stanton and Belle haul Quincy Morgan towards the back of the theatre and the certain death that awaited him out of sight of the others.
One by one the hostages begin to disrobe. They have gone from losing their freedom to losing their hope to now losing their dignity as piles of clothes litter the great room’s floor. Many of them stared up at him as hope for all their very survival dwindled. You were supposed to serve us; their gazes appear to say and burn hot as fire. You were supposed to protect us; their looks beg to say and run cold as ice.
“Do what you must,” Quincy Morgan’s voice falters as he passes nearly out of audible range and at last Chris can no longer see him. “I am unafraid to die. That makes me the most dangerous man in the world.”
That is where you are mistaken, Chris thought, removing his shirt and pants, flinging them angrily into the growing mound on the floor.
He knew that Thomas Pepper, a noted journalist and blogger had christened another with that designation in his last book.
The most dangerous man in the entire world is my brother, Xavier Prince.
Xavier
Calhoun State Prison (Alpha Wing); Morgan, Georgia, 3rd Day
Xavier heard a platoon of correctional officers angling down the cold corridors, coming for him at last.
They came for him while he inhaled the last of his Newport, and thumbed through the last chapter of a biography about his father, Isaac Prince, the founder of A House in Chains.
By the sounds echoing down the hall, they came for him in force, so Xavier shelved his book in alphabetical order next to the dozens of others in his cell, exhaled the smoke in one long, blue stream and began undressing. He had an odd sense of déjà vu but couldn’t explain the sensation to himself. He was tugging at his boxers with only his chill bumps to warm him when he heard the master key twisting in the lock allowing his visitors inside.
Xavier showed him his back and spread his arms against the nearest brick wall in preparation to be frisked, his tell tossed. In whatever manner this frisking or tossing was carried to completion was entirely up to the guards. Four inmates had died in recent months under suspicious circumstances here at Calhoun State Prison and Xavier Prince had no wish to add his name to that list.
“Good morning,” Xavier said, his head locked in the forward position.
No one returned his greeting, once again. Instead, he heard a woman’s voice with a throaty tone and carrying an enormous shadow as she instructed her cohorts to toss his cell and pat him down for weapons. He nearly broke his own protocol in an attempt to match the husky voice to a face; women were not uncommon at Calhoun, but to see woman with her sheer size would have been an unexpected treat before breakfast.
One of the guards asked what the need in patting him down was. He was standing in his birthday suit for Christ sake. Xavier kept his eyes trained forward throughout the entire process, but his curiosity made this unusually difficult. The woman stranger asked for his permission to do the deed herself and when he nodded his approval, she did began to feel around his crotch, while one of the other guards went through his belongings scattered around the cell.
“Turn around, Prince.” She commanded after she stepped back to an adequate distance. “My name if Officer Rose Dixon. The new warden, Donald Bright, is expecting to see you in his office in his office immediately.
Rose Dixon:
She was at least 6’4” tall. She was thick of neck, triceps and calves and despite a pleasant enough face and a dirty blonde ponytail, Xavier guessed she was often mistaken for a man.
She was a magnificent specimen; he stood there stamped to this spot as naked as the day he was born and couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
“Warden Bright?” He’d asked after a moment of composing himself.
Officer Dixon shifted her weight in impatience. “In the past 36 hours, Warden Bright received his orders from the State of Georgia, to govern this prison and all the populace that reside inside its walls.” She said in a deep voice. “Warden Fain has been reassigned.” She cut her brown eyes at him. “Reading your file, I’m sure you’re already familiar with the change in power.”
Reassigned or have you gotten yourself fired, Farris, Xavier wondered. She was correct in the assumption that he was privy to the information that she’d shared with him. Yet, The State of Georgia moved Warden Fain out of Calhoun faster than even I thought possible. Good. They’d probably spared themselves thousands of dollars in covering the brute’s funeral sources if he stayed at Calhoun much longer.
Officer Dixon’s dark tone grew sardonic. “If you don’t have any more questions, Inmate Prince, you should get your clothes on. I don’t like to keep the warden waiting.”
“Then let’s go.” Xavier said.
An entourage of eight more guards had been waiting outside the cell and received the four people who stepped into the cold, dark, corridor. Xavier matched their pace until he halted his progress and squatted to speak to an old jailbird who was camped on the floor of his cell. The old man was rumored to be 90 years old and had been in The Georgia Correctional System for over 70 years now. He was blind and nearly deaf and grunted and squealed more than he talked these days. Xavier gave the man a wide smile, “When I return from my visit with the new warden, I want you to tell me another story of your escapades when you ransacked Valdosta when you were a teenager.”
The old man leaned closer, not hearing Xavier, the younger man repeated himself and the old man let out a laugh that would lift the spirits in a graveyard. He said something to Xavier unfathomable, grunted, and laughed again.
Xavier Prince rose to his feet, waved his hand at the old timer and fell in step with his escorts.
Xavier Prince never could say goodbye.
Warden Donald Bright:
He was a well-built man who had high cheek bones, straight teeth, and blonde hair that screamed to strangers that he could have been a successful salesman or second tier Hollywood actor if he had wanted, instead of being a simple prison warden.
He was completing some forms, writing with his left hand when Xavier, Rose Dixon, and two of the guards entered his office, the final guard closing the door behind him without being told. Xavier took a familiar spot in front of the warden’s desk. The office was rectangle shaped, with cracks lacing the walls and floors. There were boxes scattered everywhere. Warden Bright hadn’t had the chance to unpack his belongings yet.
Xavier waited.
After ten minutes, Warden Bright tossed his pen aside, dismissed the remaining two guards with a Louisianan accent, while Rose Dixon took a few giants paces forward and secured herself at the warden’s right side. Another minute passed and finally the younger man acknowledged Xavier’s presence.
“Somehow, I expected you to be taller.” Warden Donald Bright announced. “Sit down, Prince.” Warden Bright waved the back of his right hand towards where Rose Dixon was standing. “I’m sure Rose—I mean Officer Dixon—introduced herself to you already. We must follow those mandated protocols mustn’t we, Rose?”
“Yes, sir,” The large woman actually smiled.
“We’ve served The Georgia State Correctional System together for what…Rose, nearly ten years now haven’t we?”
“Actually 12, sir,” Xavier acknowledged a color in her otherwise pale face and a gleam in Rose’s dull brown eyes that hadn’t existed when she extracted him from his cell. This was more than a working relationship—in her mind at the least.
“My, my, my,” Warden Bright flashed a million dollar smile at her. She melted. “How time flies when you are having fun.”
Xavier needed a cigarette. He crossed his legs and sat back in his chair instead. “You have your own private shield, Warden, how convenient?”
Warden Bright didn’t waste further time denying the obvious. “Rose here has helped me out of some tig
ht spots here and there.”
Rose face shifted back to its normal mode as she folds her arms, eyeing Xavier Prince the entire time. Alright, I get it, you are prepared to defend him against in threat I may pose. If he weren’t scheduled to be released over the next day or two he might…just might…find this new relationship between the three of them interesting. “Why am I here, Warden?” Xavier asked into the room’s silence.
“You are direct, Prince. I can appreciate that, so I won’t delay the inevitable any longer: My predecessor’s formal inquiry concluded that the death by beheading of inmate Michael Davenport and three prison guards could not have been carried out alone by the other two inmates who also perished that day.” He said, looking from one page of the report to another. “You know, I don’t believe it either. At least one, if not two other men were on that floor when this all went down. And somehow the weapon used to cut Davenport’s head off has yet to be found.”
Xavier and Julian Moore sprinted back to their cells while the two bigger men stayed behind and bought them time, dealing with the mass of humanity exiting the mess hall after lunch after Xavier failed to get Intel from Davenport. Xavier wasn’t a praying man, but had stopped by the chapel every day since to pay his respects to all of the men who lost their lives that afternoon.
“How does any of this connect to me?”
Warden Bright slid two black and white photos from his stash of papers over to the other side of desk where Xavier could reach them. Xavier felt his pulse quicken. So he reached, ever slowly for a toothpick from a bottle, stuck it in his mouth, since having a cigarette would be impossible right now and studied the photographs.
Warden Bright was saying, “I find it…interesting…that both of the dead black inmates at the scene wore the mark on their necks, a mark terribly similar to the one tattooed on the side of your neck as well. Help me out here, Prince; the tattoo is of a chain for A House in Chains? Or am I off track here?”
Xavier chewed on his toothpick, studied the photos a minute longer and pushed them back to Warden Bright’s side of the desk. Rose Dixon shifted in her stance. Satisfied in his silence, Xavier sat back in his chair. “Surely, I can’t be held responsible for the violence perpetrated by two deranged individuals,” Xavier said smoothly. “There are millions of People of Color across America who has taken the mark. I’ve met with at least 50 men in this prison alone who have sworn an allegiance to our cause, who have visualized our people’s future.”
“Yes,” Warden Bright said carefully. “They have seen days filled with misery and pain…or so I’ve heard.”
“Anyway,” Xavier continued. “Should I be held responsible for the misdeeds of any man who bears the mark in this prison?”
Warden Bright’s brows curled. “Come now, Prince, and be reasonable. You wouldn’t dismiss this event as if it were mere chance would you?”
“Life is God’s most precious gift.” These were Chris’ words. Xavier’s brother had the gift of expression that he would never have. “Even the life of a lesser form of human like Michael Davenport means something to me, Warden. Still, I’m sure your predecessor’s reports that I was in my cell and otherwise detained when this went down?”
Warden Bright flipped through a few pages…and back again before he finally gave up looking for the specific citation. “21 inmates and four prison guards testified that they saw you in your cell at some point when this carnage was taking place if my memory serves me.”
“Well there you are,” Xavier went to stand, putting this meeting to an end.
“Sit down, Prince.” Warden Bright said with some bile. “There’s more.”
Xavier tugged at his pants legs and sat back in his chair and resumed chewing on his toothpick. We didn’t miss a step in planning our escape back to the cells. Be cool, Prince, and play this man’s game until he is satisfied.
It was Donald Bright’s turn to sit back in his chair. He rocked back and forth and back again until the chair would no longer hold him down. “You do know, as old as Calhoun may be that this prison has a sophisticated surveillance system. What’s unique about this system is that if there are any disruptions in the feed, alarms are set off and those who monitor the system are immediately alerted.”
“A wise precaution,”
“But the most ultra-modern system can’t compensate for tampering. Come over this side of the desk, Prince. I want you to see this.”
Prince slid his petite frame to the opposite side of the desk, to Rose Dixon’s displeasure. “What am I looking at, Warden?”
“Just pay attention to this section here…right behind where the two large inmates were standing, just before they rushed Davenport and beheaded him with, what I’m guessing was probably was a machete.”
Xavier did as he was bid without comment. The video played back showing exactly as Warden Bright…and his own memory recalled. Once Davenport refused to give up the when and where of what turned out to be The 411 attacks in Atlanta, Prince ordered the man killed. Julian Moore, like Xavier, just out of the camera’s visual snapped his finger and brought a guard—who’d taken the mark as well—onto the scene who provided the weapon to behead Davenport.
The two other inmates, a homosexual couple nicknamed Sampson and Delilah, intentionally and voluntarily standing in the camera’s view, stayed behind to distract the coming guards while Xavier and Julian Moore made their escape along a preordained route back their individual cells.
Xavier finally observed what the warden had noticed was off about the playback: A small bird that had flown outside the window and provided a shadow against the bright sunshine of that afternoon.
“You saw it too, Prince.” Warden Bright said. “As I said before, the system is designed to identify any disruption. It can’t compensate for someone intentionally giving it the same feed over and over. The shadow of that bird passing not once but again and again gives that away.”
“I’ve been in this business almost my entire adult life, Prince. I’ve seen it all, or at least I thought I had.” Warden Bright spat. “I‘ve seen inmates kill other inmates or guards out of fear of reprisal, or out of a blind sense of loyalty to a group or cause. I’ve never seen what is going on in the short time I’ve been here. Who are you really, Prince? Who are you to command such respect, authority and even…love from what amounts to strangers blindly doing your bidding?”
In the long term, Xavier Prince had neither the time nor the desire to have a prolonged conflict with this man, but he dared not appear weak in the presence of any Rooster at any time. His time in this hell hole was drawing to a close; he might as well test the waters of release right now. “Fortunately for everyone involved, I will be out of your hair in just under 48 hours. This complex web of influence that you swear that I weave at this facility will be at an end.”
Warden Donald Bright spun around and gazed out of his window into the courtyard and then the highway beyond. “And where will you go, Prince.” All of the enthusiasm of the warden’s discovery had evaporated from his voice. “And what will you do…with so much power?”
Xavier surprised himself by answering. “I’m headed…elsewhere... nowhere…I’ll guess I’ll know when I get there. I’ll always go where I’m needed. I’ll continue to pursue equality and justice for my people.”
The other man spun back around and swiped at the folders on his desk in one motion, and knocked most of them to the floor. He hopped on the floor and flipped again through the mess in hot pursuit of something that Xavier cannot name. Finally, he pinched another photo between his fingertips, Rose Dixon ever present at his side when he stood at full height again.
“This is the photo of Larry Gleason, security guard. He was a husband and a father to three children.” The warden said. “All life is precious, Prince, didn’t we both agree to that point a second ago.”
“We do,” Xavier said in a calm tone. 48 hours, Prince. In two days this entire conversation will be but a footnote to my stay in this Godforsaken place.
&n
bsp; “Do we really? Or do you consider Gleason a lesser man like you called Davenport simply because of the color of his skin? Is he—what is the term your people have coined these days—just another…Rooster, just another White Man that rises before any other animal on the farm, searching for a fresh way to keep a Person of Color down and out. ”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Warden.” Xavier said in a dangerous voice that Rose Dixon caught breath of immediately. “I mourned for his family’s loss like I did all the others involved.”
“He had a mortgage to pay, Prince. He had hopes and dreams. He had three children, for Christ sake.”
Xavier turned on him, his anger rising to the surface like an erupting volcano. “I have two boys as well, Warden.” Just as suddenly Xavier willed his muscles in his neck to relax. He had heard Rose Dixon grab her nightstick and he doubted she would return it to her holster before his visit was completed. “This justice system of yours has stolen fourteen months of my life over trumped up charges of Grand Larceny. Our government is convinced A House in Chains is dealing weapons to Western African nations like Liberia and Sierra Leone for a profit in funding its cold war with Pandora.” He leaned into the warden’s face. Neither man broke eye contact. “They’ve stolen 14 months from my time with my boys, Warden. They needed me out of the way, while Pandora tried to destroy everything my father built.”
Rose Dixon stuck her baton into Xavier’s chest and forced him back.
“You were a lawyer, Prince. You should know that trafficking weapons to foreign agents is illegal under the law.” Warden Bright reminded him.
“As it should be,” Xavier felt a throbbing in his temple come…and subside just as quickly. He sat back down, needing a cigarette more than ever before. “How convenient for your system, that these weapons or all of this cash were never found.”
“Just as the weapon that beheaded Davenport will never be found; or justice brought to the real men who were behind what happened that day ever will be found either.” Bright said with a trace of bitterness in his tone.
The warden chose to remain standing. Rose Dixon planted her large frame in the space between Xavier and the warden.
“What is it that you want from me, Warden?” Xavier asked.
“Respect of self,” The warden said with a blank look on his face.
“What?” Xavier asked as the land line rang four times before Warden Bright seemed to acknowledge its existence at all. “What did you say?”
“Those were your father’s words. That was part of his first mandate after he founded A House in Chains all of those years ago.” The phone on the warden’s desk rang itself out. “Respect from family and then respect from the community—“
Xavier heard an urgent banging on the warden’s door.
“I’m busy right now.” Bright shouted in the door’s direction. He never unfixed his gaze on Xavier. “I’ve read both of Thomas Pepper’s books on race relations in this country. I’ve fixed his interviews and subsequent chapters on you to memory.”
“Have you, now?” Xavier asked. “I remember those interviews with Pepper as well. He is a…interesting man.”
Whoever was outside of the door hadn’t left. The voice pleaded with the warden to admit him. For the first time since Xavier sat down in this room, Rose Dixon looked unsure of whether the warden was in full control of himself or the situation at hand.
“Thomas wrote that one of your most compelling traits is that you had a sincere since of honor. He said that you always told the truth.” Warden Bright leaned over his desk. “Why don’t you put this charade and fill in the gaps of what this video doesn’t reveal. Why don’t you tell Rose and me the truth of what really happened that afternoon a couple of weeks back?”
The two men stared at one another a long time—when the prison’s alarm blared.
Xavier Prince and Rose Dixon jumped at the sound. Warden Donald Bright kept his gaze fixed on Xavier, almost oblivious, a bitter smile beginning to grace his lips. He’s cooler than even I am. He truly has ice running in his veins. Circumstance guaranteed that Xavier could never call this man a friend, but he admired the collective way he carried himself. “Did you have Davenport killed?” Bright’s voice was barely audible through the wailing of the alarm. “I want to know if Pepper had you judged correctly.”
Three officers from Xavier’s escort used their passcodes to bypass the lock and let themselves in, their weapons drawn. “My apologies, Warden,” The most senior of the men had blood dripping from a gash of his forehead, and sweat was pouring from his armpits. “We had no idea whether you were in danger or not—“
“It’s alright, Thompson.” Warden Bright said. “What is going on?”
Thompson took a deep breath and steeled himself. “We have an emergency situation up on the third floor. A full-fledged riot is on. We’ve estimated that 70 to 75 percent of Calhoun’s population is loose. Our situation is critical.”
Warden Bright stood, but if he was in panic mode he wore the look of anxiety well. He pulled his jacket off, kneeled at a safe besides his desk, zipped through the combination and produced a nine millimeter pistol. He checked the chamber for rounds, disengaged the safety and tucked the weapon into previously concealed shoulder holster. “Do we know what happened?”
Thompson shook his head. “Most of the details are sketchy as of right now, sir.” The officer seemed to hesitate a second, and Xavier gathered that Thompson was trying to measure what he should say in front of him. “We do know that members of the Black population initiated the hostilities.”
The warden asked for a map of this facility and one of the younger officers thought he remembered where one was. He returned to the office after leaving so quickly that it was difficult for the others to remember that he had exited at all.
“Where can I be of the most use right now, Thompson?”
“Their leader,” Thompson hands a torn piece of paper with the inmate’s name jotted down on it to the warden. “A Julian Moore is asking to meet with both of you on Alpha Wing.”
The warden pats Rose Dixon’s shoulder with his left hand. “Alright, you heard the man. Let’s go, Rose.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Thompson stepped into their path from exiting the room. “I probably didn’t make Moore’s instructions clear enough. The two of you that the prisoner was referring to was yourself and this inmate, Xavier Prince.”
The warden cursed. Xavier would have sworn on a thousand Bibles that Donald Bright’s skin lost one tone of color at that exact moment. Yet, the man recomposed himself and Xavier saw him working muttering something, working out a plan in his mind.
Warden Donald Bright shook his head, no.
And Xavier noted another sense of déjà vu—at this scene played out eerily similar to his own moment of decision a few weeks back.
“You take three other guards and escort inmate Prince back to his cell.” Bright pointed at the junior man, the one who had fetched the map and had returned to his office so swiftly.
The junior man whose name was Stuckey frowned in confusion. “Sir,”
“You men have your orders. Rose, you and Mr. Thomson are both with me.”
“Yes, sir,” The two said in chorus.
Two hours later, back in his cell, Xavier could hear many pairs of footsteps echoing against the stoned floor. He pulled an unlit Newport from his lips and planted a toothpick in his mouth instead.
Warden Donald Bright had come to his office.
“Julian Moore and about three dozen other inmates, mostly former gang bangers from this group that called their selves the Black Knight, have barricaded themselves up inside Alpha Wing up on the third floor.” It had only been a couple of hours since their meeting, but Warden Bright looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. “They have managed to get their hands on a handful of civilians and are threating to kill them if I don’t meet their demands.” Warden bright caught site of Xavier’s pack of smokes sitting in his shirt pocket shook one of the Newport’s loose an
d watched as Xavier lit the cigarette for him. Once again, Xavier was reminded that circumstance guaranteed that he could never call this man a friend, but he admired the collective way he carried himself. “Moore’s still asking for you.” The warden said after he exhaled his own long stream of smoke. “They are calling this their great campaign: A Riot’s Last Gleaming or some bullshit like that.” He shook his head dismayed. “I’m willing to provide you with any resource available to me, whatever you need to help free those captives up there.”
Xavier grabbed the prison bars with all of his strength. “Take me to where Julian is, unbounded.” Xavier said. The guards began to mouth a protest, Rose Dixon especially, but Warden bright pointed his cigarette at them with his left hand for silence. Xavier continued when the corridor had quieted enough to be heard. “I don’t know what Julian and his Black Knights are up to, but I give you my word on my father’s grave that I will not try to escape…and I’ll do whatever I can to help you resolve this.”
Xavier Prince was unsure of whatever answers the immediate future held for him. A part of him wanted to pray, but he was unsure of the words that God wanted to hear. And he knew even less what the dreams he’d been having of his father meant though he was sure they meant something important was going to happen to him, and soon.
The one thing Xavier Prince did know for a certainty is that when Officer Rose Dixon approached his cell with the keycard and he heard the bolt unlatch with an audible click, he knew he had heard that revolting sound for the very last time. He could feel it in his marrow. He swallowed hard.
Xavier took his rightful place at the head of the pack, the warden struggling to match his purposeful stride. Rose Dixon hung several paces behind them, with intention, Xavier surmised. She wanted to guard Bright’s life from any enemy that may threaten him. Those threats include me, I suppose.
“You were scheduled for release in a day or so, Prince.” Warden bright doused the cigarette by stepping on it and caught back up with Xavier. “It looks as if that will be impossible now. Look, I’m not ignorant to what is going on upstate in Atlanta right now, The 411; I know how important it must be for you to get home to your city and to your sons.” He paused until they turned the corner where the old timer’s cell was. Prince wanted to stop and speak to the man one last time. “We’re stealing more of your time. What can I offer you as compensation?”
Xavier halted his progress, turned and caught a whiff warden’s dragon breath. “The damage has already been done. Atlanta will keep. And my son’s understand their father’s role in this life.” He took a small step towards the other man. Out of the corner of his eye, Xavier could see Rose Dixon rest her hand on her nightstick once more. “That look of uncertainty and…fear you are wearing on your face is providing me all the compensation that I’ll ever need.” And just like in the warden’s office the two men stared at each other for a long time, until it was Warden Donald Bright who broke eye contact.
Xavier kneeled down to where the old man was usually seated on the floor in the cell nearest to him. He found him sleeping. He didn’t want to disturb the old man, but Xavier was sure he would never pass this way again so he shook him at the shoulder…and then he shook him again. Slightly alarmed, Xavier Prince reached both of his hands through the bars and laid a hand on each side of his neck, measuring for a pulse.
But the old man was dead.
Xavier Prince lay the old man back down, eased his arms and hands from out of the prison bars, got to his feet and straightened his tunic before turning back to face the warden.
“After this is all over, I will pay for this man’s funeral arrangements. There will be no cremation as mandated by this state for inmates who parish while incarcerated.” Xavier said. “I’m holding you personally responsible that my wishes are met.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Xavier twisted back around and began walking towards the stairs, towards his an uncertain destiny and the others followed him in silence.
He didn’t look back at his dead old friend.
Xavier Prince never could say goodbye.
Angel
Fox Theatre (Peachtree Street Command) Midtown Atlanta, 3rd Day
“Why in the hell is he here?” Dr. Angel Hicks-Dupree asked Agent Nicholas Sheridan of the man who exited the Chrysler with him a minute ago.
Justin Ryan:
He had grown a pot belly on an otherwise slim frame. He was shitfaced and wore too much moose in his hair, but Angel had to admit he was ruggedly handsome in his silky, black suit.
“Mr. Ryan happened to be on personal business up the street in Chattanooga, Tennessee, Doctor,” Sheridan shot her warning glance for her not to start, not here, not now. “Justin Ryan was The FBI’s Chief Hostage Negotiator for many years and Deputy Director Rice asked to consult here, for him to be a part of this team, like he asked for you to be a part of the team.” He checked his Rolex. “In fact, the director himself should be arriving himself any minute now.”
“Benny Stanton sent us a list with specific FBI personnel that he would not negotiate with. I’m not on this list; this man is at the top of it.” Ryan had extended his hand to her, but she left it hanging there naked and exposed in the morning chill. And if you saw how this man single handily cost lives at Waco you would see my point.
“Stanton or no one else dictates terms here, Doctor.” Angel was unsure whether Sheridan had raised his voice because to be heard over the circling helicopter flying into place, or to make his point of emphasis clear to her. He glanced at the Rolex again. “At first light, Stanton agreed to release several of the oldest women and youngest children in exchange for the talks beginning. Eight people have already walked out of that building alive. I call that progress, Doctor.”
A strong gust of wind whipped through from Peachtree Street, the helicopters’ blades making it all the worse. Angel hugged herself, pulled her hoodie back over her head and hunched her shoulders. “He agreed to those releases as an exercise in good faith, Agent Sheridan. He messaged us that he would begin talking only after one of the individuals he asked for showed up. He’s tied tongued, Sheridan. He’s no dummy. This is sure to provoke him.”
Angel is saved from another round of Sheridan’s undressing as all three of them notice a black Chrysler swerving through the maze of idol police cruisers, government vehicles and barricades until its breaks squeal and two more men exit out each of the back seat doors and a young woman rises from the passenger side. A uniformed APD officer nods at their questions and points them both in the vicinity where this party is bracing themselves against the biting cold.
Angel recognized the older of the two immediately, smiled when the other man’s features became familiar to her, and pitched an educated guess to who the younger woman was.
Deputy Director Rice:
He was pale and thin and wore brown rimmed spectacles and reeked of coffee and cigarette smoke when he shook her hand and passed a container of coffee in her direction. He never took his eyes off of Angel as he shook both Sheridan and Ryan’s hands and patted the latter man on the back with some affection. You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Ray.
Special Agent Romeo Kendall:
He was a panda shaped Black man with a slow right eye and a too lively twitch of his upper lip and he still was wearing a hairstyle better suited for the late 1980’s. He’d been promoted to Commander of the Lead Rescue Team in the past six months, or so Angel’s sources inside the bureau had told her.
Special Agent Tabitha Blue:
She was a skinny brunette in her early thirties with big ears sticking out from underneath the thin hair and she had a noticeable overbite. Angel smiled inwardly that Christopher’s partner was the quintessential girl next door carrying a badge and a gun. Agent Blue referred to Angel as madam and extended her skeleton hand enough for the doctor to squeeze her fingers.
After introductions were made and the stressful reality of the moment engulfed her once more, Romeo’s appearance in particular,
caused Angel to reevaluate her surroundings. She’d been involved with enough of these scenarios, both in simulation and in the field, to readily identify what she was seeing. She heard another FBI copter arrive on the scene as she stole a sip of her copter, fighting the cold winds thrashed up because of the copter’s blades.
She knew that each copter served its own unit of three or four agents in the copter itself and another six sharpshooters on the ground. Angel knew that the FBI liked to conduct operations in threes…and over there, just past those pine trees, she saw yet another helicopter had been dispatched and was skimming over the horizon. So there were at least nine if not more sharpshooters sitting, almost invisible around the theater ready to strike when called upon.
In addition, if memory served her, there were Mobile Tactical Teams of Logistics, Intelligence, Communications, and Command Staffs making up the bulk of the personnel squeezing into a one mile radius surrounding the theater as well. Serena, what web have you spun here? Angel had already worked out the theory that the siege part of Stanton’s maneuver here at The Fox Theatre was of his own doing and ad live of the events of 411. However many operatives you have with you, Serena fixed you with the task of indiscriminate killing of everyone inside and then you were supposed to get out. If Stanton somehow managed to survive the next few days or hours in this standoff and extract what he wanted from the FBI, he was likely to die as Serena’s hands for disobeying orders.
She burned Ryan with a look that would have warmed her coffee and cursed him in her mind. One screw up holding a gun and hostages inside didn’t deserve another on the outside holding a bullhorn.
“Sheridan, listen.” Angel grabbed him by the elbow, deciding that now was not an ideal time to breach protocol. I will follow the chain of command. She then shared with the group, through talking directly with Agent Sheridan, her theories about Stanton breaking ranks from Pandora and acting on his own.
“I don’t totally disagree with your assessment, Doctor.” Sheridan said. “That’s Stanton’s MO alright.”
Chief negotiator Justin Ryan finally chimed in. “Is that your final professional analysis of this situation, Doctor.” He spat her title at her. “Or is that some type of psychological analysis of a situation that you have no technical expertise in. What I’m saying is perhaps this is evidence of you letting your emotional investment govern your thought process.”
“No, Justin, that isn’t evidence at all.” She gave him the finger. “This is.”
Ryan snorted and through his hands up. “Son of a bitch,” He said. “Raymond, you actually keep people like this on the government’s payroll.”
The Deputy Director downed the last of his coffee and slapped Ryan on his shoulder again. “Calm down, Justin.” He pointed his empty coffee cup at Angel. “And play nice, Doctor.” He then pointed the coffee cup at Sheridan to give him the floor once more.
Sheridan cleared his throat and assumed command. “Each one of you is here because you bring a unique talent and area of expertise to this crisis. I’m going to need a mixture of these talents, expertise and experience to get us through this and ultimately save those people inside that theatre.”
“That is what I’m trying to do.” Angel said. “Forgive me, sir, but we all do remember a little historical blunder called Waco don’t we?”
Sheridan said, “Doctor, please. I don’t think we should—“
“And why shouldn’t we?” Angel folded her arms, drawing her line in sand here and now. She put all of her focus on Ryan so there would be no mistake of who she was referring to. “This man was personally responsible for the firestorm that engulfed the Mount Carmel Center in Texas and the 70 some odd deaths of the Branch Dravidians that resulted from it.”
Ryan tossed the last of his coffee from out of his cup into the breeze, pulled in his gut and bowed his narrow chest out. “Don’t you dare lecture me on what you perceive you know, young lady. I have no regrets for the decisions I made that day. Every action I ordered served a greater peace, a greater security for the country I served and the country I still love.”
“Peace?” Angel cocked a brow at the referenced word. “My father was on the ATF team that had been there for 51 days before the FBI allowed you to run the negotiations.” She heard her voice soften. “My father wasn’t a good man. He was a turd in fact, but he stayed behind for days after the siege ended and helped dig those people’s carcasses out of that rubble. He took those singed images…and the smells of those babies, of your peace, he found to his grave with him.”
“Many lives were lost that day, that’s true. I’ve never denied it. But my focus lies in the days and years that followed since that fateful day. I would give the order again today. I will give the order again today. I will sacrifice every man, woman and child left inside that theatre if it gives some assurances that this situation doesn’t happen again for another 15 or 20 years.” Justin Ryan cursed aloud. “It means that I am doing my job.”
“Hopefully, you will be dead long before an event happens like this again.” Angel said and meant.
“That’s enough, both of you.” Rice said in exasperation. He took a deep breath and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and made contact with Romeo. “Are all of your people in place?”
“That’s an affirmative.” Romeo Kendall pulled out an architectural blueprint of The Fox Theatre and adjacent buildings and nearby streets. “We have snipers positioned here…here…and here. Their weapons are hot and they only await targets to fall into view and a go.”
The smoky haze that had been an Atlanta trademark over the past few months blew in without little warning. The dry area stirred up a coughing fit from Romeo. He collected himself, said, “Two mobility units are stationed on the upper southeastern edge of the structure. They are lightly armed and as their name imply and are extremely mobile. They are moving into place and await further instructions as you and I speak, sir. Our three helicopters have jurisdiction over the skies for the mandated six miles out. No one will enter this zone. That means limited media coverage. That also means that if Stanton has some visual of what is going on out here, it won’t be a panoramic enough view to give away our movements. Even if he has an escape route mapped out of this theatre of operations, pardon the pun, we will be able to pinch him and finally take him down.”
The Deputy Director nodded, pleased. “Excellent work, all of you.”
Angel felt a tingling in her neck, as if she’d been stuck by a bee signifying her defeat. She faced Ryan down. “So what is your plan?”
“Bob Tate is speaking by phone right now with Stanton. He is acting as if he were leading the ‘dummy’ negotiations as that little shit inside that building wanted.” Ryan spoke to the group. “In the meantime we’re going to allow those inside that building a little downtime. Let Stanton bask in the glory of letting him believe he is in control here. Let’s let him take a little breath while we let him gain a false sense of security. More importantly, we’ll wait on darkness to fall over the city.” He then, with a purpose, found Angel’s eyes and took two steps towards her. “And then we’re going to gas everyone inside, have Commander Kendall’s people storm the building and take back what is ours.”
Angel cursed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Ryan countered. “It’s the only way to be sure.”
Angel’s big brown eyes pleaded with the group of five who had gathered on this chilly, smoky afternoon with her on Peachtree Street. “Does anyone else think this is a bad idea?”
When no one spoke up initially Angel snorted and kicked at a rock with her boot. Romeo Kendall searched the sky for guidance, found what he was looking for and spoke up. “The agents on the roof are scheduled to blow a hole in the theatre wall and pump sleeping gas to incapacitate the terrorist.” He looked at her with his one good eye, but spoke loud enough for it to be intended for the group. “The gas is an odorless, invisible proxy we modeled after an ingredient we lifted off the Russians a few years ago.” He squeezed
Angel’s shoulders with some affection. “It’s a good plan, Angel. And it gets better.” He released her and turned back to his superior, Deputy Director Rice and the others. “We are coordinating our efforts with a specialized force that have entered the sewers and narrow underground shafts and are setting up listening devices.” It was time for Romeo to check his watch…or better yet a stopwatch. “In about an hour we’ll have those systems online. We will be able to hear and any and all conversations that are going on in there. More importantly, we will also have the ability to ascertain a better estimate to our enemy’s exact numbers, the condition of the friendlies, and exactly where in the hell everyone inside is located.”
Sheridan said, “There will most certainly be civilian casualties, Doctor. We’ve taken every necessary step to keep those numbers at a minimum.”
“I know that you believe that you have, Agent Sheridan.” Angel said. This is a damned foolish thing that you all are doing here, a damned foolish thing. She tried another angle. “And what if they spoil your perfect little scenario and throw off your timing by not waiting through your downtime. What if Stanton loses his patients and starts killing people before dark.”
“He won’t.” Justin Ryan said with an absolute certainty. “He could have killed every poor bastard in there and been on his way hours ago, before anyone arrived to stop him. The man wants something. I know this. So do you. Another few hours is not going to make one helluva difference to him.”
Angel let out a curt, maddening laugh. “This is insane.”
“It is,” Sheridan agreed and looked at Agent Blue, who looked as if she wanted to say something. “But it looks as if it is our best shot… if you have something constructive to add, Tabitha?”
“Respectfully, I do, sir.” Agent Blue shifted in her stance. “We all believe my partner, Special Agent Christopher Prince, is amongst those being held inside. I believe that I’ve worked with the man long enough to know that he would be asking some of same questions that Doctor Hicks-Dupree is asking if he were out here with us. Are these risks we are all taking worth the price those inside may be asked to pay?”
Just as Angel breathed a sigh of relief for someone bringing sanity to the conversation she heard Justin Ryan answer for Sheridan. “They are, Agent Blue. Yet, the doctor’s point is a good one. What if Stanton enacts some type of offensive before sunset? That’s why we can’t afford to waste any more time. Ray, I need to finalize a couple more details with Commander Kendall—“
“One last point,” Angel waited for either Raymond Rice or Nicholas Sheridan to give her the slightest hint that she would be allowed to go on. The Deputy Director ran his fingers through his hair then glanced out of the corner of his eye, one last point, Doctor, it seemed to say.
“I want each of you to think about the political ramifications of what you are proposing.”
“I’ll take that one, Doctor.” The Deputy Director said. “The world and more importantly to me, the citizens of this city are watching every step of this process. As a governmental agency, we must strike at a subsidiary of Pandora with as much vehemence as we would if A House in Chains or the revival of The Black Panther Party, Branch Dravidians, or any other extremist militant group would.”
“And by definition, these people holding those captives inside are our people.” Agent Blue said with an air of venom that gave Angel another chill. “I’ve heard through the grapevine, that Stanton recruited women as pawns to help take this building. Many of these women went through the FBI Training Program with me. They are traitors to their country and to us as an agency. Ultimately, it should be up to people like us to decide their fate.”
“I understand that, Agent Blue. But what if the Black community,” She corrected herself when Romeo flashed her one evil eye. “What if People of Color views the FBI’s actions the opposite way of what your true intentions are?”
Sheridan cocked a bushy brow, appearing more fascinated with her question than annoyed with it. “How do you mean?”
“What if they view this as a hyper active action that disregards the lives of their citizens?” It was her turn to give Romeo a devilish look. “It is a group that looks out at the world and sees it undervaluing the lives of People of Color already. What if you all are all wrong, what if all of this planning is truly a grave mistake in judgment of our parts?”
Sheridan blew out a breath he’d been holding. “Then, we will have to live with it.”
Justin Ryan nodded at Sheridan, then face downed his old friend Raymond Rice. “Ray?” He got The Deputy Director’s attention. “I’ll fall on the sword if this one blows up in our faces. All I need for you to do is sign off on granting Commander Kendall’s men the right to use any necessary force he deems necessary. The public will learn only what we choose to disclose to them. The public thinks they understand that types of terminology like provocation, escalation, and prevention, terms that we work under everyday of our lives.” He turned his full gaze on Angel. “They don’t know a damned thing. That’s why I am here young lady. I’m going to give them a quick lesson in how to deal with extremism.”
Angel ignored Ryan and turned her attention and focus on The Director of The FBI instead. “Christopher Prince is inside that theatre. I can feel it. He’s more than just your federal agent. He’s my friend. I don’t want him to die.”
Rice said, “He is all of that, Doctor. Special Agent Prince has served this agency with honor and distinction on more than one occasion. And though I don’t know him personally, I hear from people like Sheridan and Blue here, that he is an even better man, which is obviously just as important. Still…he understands what he signed up for...”
Sheridan allowed the silence to have its moment as a smoke filled wind shifted yet again. Will this drought ever end plaguing Atlanta ever end? “Time is not our ally, sir. If you ae going to give Mr. Ryan and Commander Kendall their authorizations then the time is now.”
Angel’s head went on a swivel, intently watching all of those involved as a collective and eventually as individuals.
And then she only found eyes for the One.
The Deputy Director of The FBI opened his mouth…and closed it again.
Sheridan said, “Sir?”
Justin Ryan said, “Ray?”
Raymond Rice looked as if all of his remaining years he had left on this planet had been sucked up into a vacuum and dumped into the look he had on this face when he finally to spoke aloud for all the others…and Angel specifically to hear.”
“Do it,” He said.
Chris
Fox Theater (Central Concert Hall) 3rd Day
They came for the hostages under the cover of darkness.
Special Agent Christopher Prince heard the FBI blow open holes in the ceiling twenty feet behind him. He felt the theatre tremble as another hole opened up in the distance to his far right. And finally, with a spectacular eruption of both light and sound within 20 feet of his line of sight, he received his final signal that the cavalry was seconds away from arrival.
One way or the other, the third day of The Siege of the Fox Theatre would be its last.
We are on a stage here, thought Chris. Shall we dance, ladies?
Chris struck one of the women guards with a lethal chop at the nape of her neck when she was distracted by all of the commotion. Chris had never struck a woman before in his life, even while performing his duty, and for an odd instance in time the woman’s collapse shook him. Even though that his very life may depended on his actions…and actions still to come, he realized that he’d crossed a threshold that he would never be able to return from.
Chris didn’t let that fact hold him back.
A second guard had recovered from her initial surprise long enough to get her semiautomatic pointed in his general direction. He sprinted at full speed towards her, used his momentum to slide beneath where she was standing and snapped a bone in her left leg, while dislodging her firing weapon from her grip in one swift motion. He had kicked himself bac
k on feet in a split second. He balanced his frame and the accursed added weight around his middle on one leg, while crushing the soft tissue around her throat with the other.
Chris bent over, winded and cursed himself for his damned gut slowing him down. My lapses in discipline in maintaining healthy eating habits over that past few months may cost me everything today.
Chris took a deep breath and got to his knees, semiautomatic in tow and nearly crawled from room to the next as he caught the scent of tear gas that was beginning to sting his eyes. The fountains, Chris stood erect, taking his chance with inhaling more teargas for the sanctuary of the fountains on the far side of this area. He washed his face while the water flowed over his baldness down into his shirt. At least Luna Belle had enough decency to allow us all to redress after she’d discovered a dozen more of the hostages who had taken the mark and were segregated from the other People of Color.
Chris whipped his head around in time to see scores of Mobility Team members swinging in on ropes to the floor level. If these guys were the local unit, then they were Romeo Kendall’s boys and he knew personally how damn well trained they were. He knew he was going to be in a tight spot trying to escape this place in one piece, but felt better in his gut that these men were going through the hellfire with him. Bless you, Romeo. He took a quick glance behind him. I owe you one.
Kendall’s unit was making relative short work of a half dozen female guards over by the East Wing. A couple of the desperate women even grabbed a hostage or two as a human shield, but Chris saw the sniper’s red beams, death rays as bureau guys sometimes called them, light up an inch or two of the female’s foreheads, as a deadly round of gunfire followed in haste. One hostage dropped with his kidnapper and Christopher’s heart sank…only to watch the middle aged woman roll herself off of the dead Pandora Agent, and resume running away, screaming.
This wasn’t supposed to be a prolonged event at all, Chris surmised, watching the females being shot to death, one by one, soul by soul. Stanton’s people weren’t inept; they were ill equipped to deal with a prolonged siege, or the probable federal incursion because of that siege.
I don’t need any more motivation to find and bring you to justice, Stanton. He thought. But your moronic thought process that brought this unnecessary loss of human life…this rapture, as Chris sometimes called it, upon us all makes you all the more expendable.
Special Agent Christopher Prince arrived near the booths that housed the ticket box office near the front entrance. What he saw there sickened him. He saw the first casualties of the siege three days earlier and the odor reeking from the bodies punched him the gut as well. At least ten People of Color had made a quick dash for this exit when Pandora’s gunfire intentionally drove the herd of humanity in towards the dead end. The exits had already been chained and when the people had panicked after learning of it, they’d reversed course and ended up here, in this room. Stanton had the carcasses piled in an undignified matter, one on top the other.
The air around Chris grew thicker with tear gas. He could find no more water fountains or anything else for that matter, to shield his self against the fumes. Chris suffered through spells of choking and coughing that took turns gnawing at his ability to move or concentrate. Sporadic gunfire could still be heard from the other wings of the building. The cries coming from the mouths of the victims had elevated itself to being the most dominant…the most tedious noise most of all. He held his weight up with one hand against a door’s opening, while he used his other hand to cover his nose and mouth with a scarf he’d picked up off one of the dead bodies. How many more will die tonight before this madness had run its course.
And then for the first time, since this rapture had begun, Chris wondered exactly where Luna Belle and Quincy Morgan were. Was the Sargent at Arms of a House in Chains and brother’s third in command still alive or—
Someone or Something struck him over the back. The object, thankfully, turned out to be weighty and not sharp and didn’t tear into his skin as well. He twisted his torso as quickly as the pain and his added weight allowed him to allow his vision quicker access to his attacker or attackers. I can still dance with you, bastard. Chris back hurt like hell. Please let it be only a single attacker, he prayed. Even in his weakened state he should at least be an equal for any of the female guards that may have survived the assault team’s initial onslaught.
But Agent Christopher Prince’s luck did not hold.
Benny Stanton had found him.
Chris searched high and low for the weapon that had been knocked away from his possession when Stanton had struck him in the back.
He rummaged in front and behind him for a possible retreat to allow himself a minute to inhale some clean oxygen through his lungs so it would flow up into his brain, so he could gather his thoughts and retool his strategy from retreating and surviving to how to launch an impressive counteroffensive.
He searched for a sign that he would receive absolution from all of his past sins.
All he found was that Benny Stanton had killed a Mobility Team member and was wearing his head gear, which insulated the other man’s lungs from the poison of the tear gas. Stanton would enjoy having enhanced vison thanks to the Virtual Vision Technology installed in each of those helmets as well. And my predicament on gets worse from here, he crouched into combat position, he’s in ex ATF Operative, meaning he’s received at least the same amount of combat training that I have. And worse of all, the bastard was in shape and wasn’t carrying around a spare tire around his middle.
With the odds weighed against him, Christopher Prince stepped on the dance floor first, hurling himself at Stanton. That was a bad move. Stanton used Chris’ own momentum to throw him against a row of chairs to the near side of the ticket concession stands. It didn’t take rocket science, or his personal doctor, for Chris to instantly know that his already aching back had been damaged further. There was a tingling sensation in the thigh areas of his right leg that was nothing to write home about either.
“Piss on you,” He screamed at Stanton.
“I’m going to kill choo.” Stanton replied back.
“Why don’t you come over here and let me untie that twisted tongue of yours, Stanton.” Chris picked himself off of the floor. “I’ll be happy to do it for choo.”
Mocking Stanton had at least succeeded in angering Stanton to the point of the other falling into stupid mode. He pulled the helmet aside and threw it at Chris, who easily side stepped it. Stanton dove at him with an attack that was part clumsy part stiff.
Chris sprinted at Stanton and made his second attempt at a slide and tackle that had worked successfully on one of the female attackers a few minutes earlier. Stanton didn’t leave his leg as exposed and vulnerable as the woman did…and the other man tried to counteract Chris move with a slide tackle move of his own.
Chris won the war of attrition. He got to his feet faster than either man would have thought humanly possible. He used Stanton’s frame for partial balance and unleashed a left jab and then right cross that returned the tactical advantage back to Chris…at least for the moment.
Whether it was from Chris’ punches or tear gas beginning to wear on him, Stanton withered more quickly than the special agent might have hoped or prayed for. This had better work, our song is nearly done. Chris called up the last of his energy reserves and let a series of lefts and rights that found their targets on Stanton’s cheeks, jaws, lips, eyes, and nose.
And then Chris spun in a 180 degree circle and unleashed a judo kick maneuver he’d saved for last.
And the dance, at last, was at an end.
Chris didn’t get to enjoy the fruits of his labor, however. He collapsed on top of Benny Stanton. He fought off unconsciousness with every fiber of his being, as he had fought for his life since the sun had set in Atlanta’s evening sky.
He fought off the memories of being taken by Louis Keaton all of those years ago.
Chris cried. He lost all control of his muscles.
He threw up. Well…at least…my back…has…stopped hurting…
And yet his eyes focused long enough to see Quincy Morgan.
The unmistakable silhouette of the member of The Circle walked with some urgency over on the Westside of the room. Or are my eyes…or mind…playing tricks on…me. A second figure slowly came into full focus, one that was even more slender and far more feminine than the first one. It was Luna Belle. He was certain of it. Unless you two…have joined me…in eternity, he thought.
Belle had a long butcher knife in her hand and repeatedly tried to stab Morgan with it. She swiped at his sternum, at his face, and finally at his throat. As he dodged each blow his grin he was wearing on hip lips only widened. He possessed no weapon of his own, except his own extremities of long legs and arms, but he seemed content to prolong his own dance a while longer.
Belle gritted her teeth and left her feet as she pushed at an area she’d targeted between his eyes with all of her strength…and failed.
Morgan had knocked the knife harmlessly to the floor.
And what…will…you do with your…victory, Quincy?
Morgan had lost his smile and mouthed something that Chris could only dream to articulate considering this distance…and his worsening condition.
Morgan glanced in his direction for a single moment in time, then moved with quickness and agility of a born acrobat, flipped behind Belle, landed at her heels, grasp her slender neck with his left hand and snapped bone after bone in it with his right.
Luna Bell’s body collapsed.
Quincy Morgan glanced in his direction one final time.
And then Christopher Prince saw angels.
And then he saw at least one Angel.
“Christopher. Christopher.” The Angel he’d know so very long was speaking, her big brown eyes nearly tearing up. “Thank, God, you’re alive! You are alive.”
And he believed it for certain when the spasms of coughing and choking worked him over again. Don’t complain, Chris, it could have been far worse. In addition to his back being sore as hell, his legs, side and his chest were burning as well.
A medical team full of faces he recognized moved him further away from the theatre out into the open air. He reasoned that it was the only way he could have made it there. “What are you doing here?” He smiled, thankful for gift of painless lip and mouth. “And what have you screwed up this time?”
Chris best friend in the entire world laughed in spite of herself. And fresh tears threatened to fall from her eyes. Through all that the woman had been through, he’d never seen her cry before.
“I haven’t gotten into trouble yet,” She rubbed his cheek. “But the night is still young and so am I.”
Chris caught her hand and gave it a couple of long squeezes. She must have noted the seriousness etched in his face, the agent in him filtering through, so she gives him the edited version of this genesis of this operation that had extracted him and the hostages from The Fox Theatre. She told him how Romeo Kendall’s plan evolved from the way the FBI initially conceived it. Agent Nicholas Sheridan, in the overseer over field operations, thought that using the specialized gas they’d taken from the Russians probably was a dangerous overreach. For that plan to have worked, everyone and I do mean everyone would have had to unconscious at the same time, or Chris realized that any captor remaining conscious would have panicked and started killing hostages as a preemptive measure for a likely incursion from FBI and ATF agents.
Out of the corner of his eye Chris saw his partner Tabitha Blue approaching. She halted her progress at a respectful distance, stuck her hands in her pockets and allowed the two friends to complete any private conversations they were having, Blue being Blue, he used some of his reserve strength to beckon her closer.
“You are a sight for sore eyes, Tabitha.”
She kneeled next to him. “I’m glad to see you made it, partner.”
Chris knew this personal exchange was Blue’s equivalent of crying. If Angel had a tough exterior then Blue was made of steel. No matter how many more years they might work together he doubted he’d ever break through to see what feelings Tabitha Blue might have buried on the other side and that was fine by him. Though he suspected that his partner looked at the FBI like her family, and took the desertions into Pandora personally
“So this was all Justin Ryan’s master plan, huh?” Chris asked. “He’s a son of a bitch alright. I can just imagine he and the good old doctor got along just fine, while I was busy right, Blue?”
Blue flashed her overbite and nodded. “Perfectly,”
“Tell me you didn’t try to intimate him, Doc?”
Angel matched Blue with a smile of her own. “Yeah, well, someone had to keep him straight.”
“Waste of time, Doc,” Chris took a deep breath and tried to mask the pain he was feeling from two very important women in his life. “Don’t you know you can’t intimidate a man who has raised seven daughters?” He said as his memory continued to unclog he asked, “I had one helluva run in with Stanton, did he—“
“Well, that explains all the bruises on this face. Anyway, he’s dead.” Blue said without emotion. “Somehow he survived his fight with you long enough to pick himself up and shot right between the eyes by one of the Mobile Team members.”
But how could have that happened? Stanton had been unconscious just as Chris had been. Federal training or not, Biology is biology, so he couldn’t have recovered fast enough to become a menace again. And if Stanton had gained consciousness even for a few minutes, he would have finished me off.
What?” Blue wanted to know. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost or something, Chris.”
“Yeah, it was probably a ghost or something to that effect,” He agreed, then shook his head to get further cobwebs out. “Luna Belle was his second in command. Have the medics recovered—“
This time it was Angel’s turn to nod. “Yea, they’ve recovered something alright. The medical examiner is unclear yet on how she broke her neck but she had a bullet hole in her forehead as well.”
He wanted to know if what he’d seen had been accurate. I’m not going to put my voice to any official report about the last moments in there until I’m clearer about what I saw.
Suddenly exhausted, Chris turned away from both women as if the conversation has zapped away the last of his strength, which in truth, it has.
And then he saw body bags.
He saw piles and piles of body bags.
“How many,” He asked without turning back to face them. He knew that Catherine, the woman of Indian descent who had been his date, who he was responsible for protecting, was one of those lying dead in one of those body bags. And he couldn’t even supply the medics her damned last name.
Blue Answered. “At least 18 confirmed civilian casualties, but expect that number to grow in the coming days by at least another handful. If you count both Stanton and Belle, then 14 Pandora agents also perished, while I know personally that two of Commander’s Kendall’s men bought it as well, while a third clings by a thread as we speak.”
Damn.
The human part of him…the part that defied death, at least for another day, selfishly turned his thoughts away from the dead and dying to…his own little world. Chris had to admit he was looking to getting home to his condo for a warm shower and a meal after a debriefing from Sheridan and a mandatory visit to a company doctor.
And yet, he felt the need to answer some of the unanswerable questions, especially before he made any official statements to Sheridan. What really happened to Benny Stanton and Luna Belle? Was he dreaming or hallucinating when he saw Quincy Morgan kill Luna Belle, did the man have something to do with shooting either one of them? For now, at least, he was forced to swallow those questions, especially in front of the partner, Tabitha Blue.
Chris personal cell phone buzzes. What? How and when did I get my phone back? Cell phones and any and all other means of communication were taken by Stanton’s people as soon they had secu
red the theatre as their very own. His screen was telling him that he had multiple messages awaiting his password to retrieve them.
I’ll add this to the list of mysteries I have to solve, he thought. And as thrilled as he as that he had recovered his personal cell phone, he hated loose ends even more passionately. Wincing in pain, he lay flat on his back and handed his phone to Angel and gave her the ten word password that put a smile on her thick lips.
“It’s wonderful that even after all these years, that you still honor your father’s memory.”
“Yea,” He said looking for a quick change of subject. “Angel, scroll back at far as you can to see who left the last message or two.”
“Sure.” She did as he had asked her, then handed the phone back to him without reading the actually message itself.”
He read three messages; two were from his personal doctor, who he had missed the follow up with today with the message saying that it was vital that he spoke with him at Chris’ earliest convenience.
And yet it was the latest text, sent nearly 24 hours ago, that parted Special Agent Christopher Princes’ lips into a visible O and rewarded him with a new pain in his gut and around hit heart. This evenings plans of returning to his condo for a shower and meal would need to be on hold, as well at visit to the company doctor… and even Sheridan’s debriefing would have to be rescheduled.
The message said:
“On the day that you escape The Fox Theatre Siege, meet me at 2:00 AM in Piedmont Park. Come alone. Your prudency and cooperation are appreciated in this manner. And your stepdaughter’s life may depend on it.”
FBI Special Agent Christopher Prince searched for a sign that he would receive absolution for all of his past sins.
After he read the text again, he now wondered if that sign would ever come.
Episode 2 Deliverance