Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“The Bureau will find whoever it is, sir,” Gonzales said assuredly.

The president accepted his chief of staff’s analysis with a sharp nod. “I want something detailed in the morning. From all ends.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Bud acknowledged, reading the request as a signal that their briefing session had ended. He led the way out of the Oval Office, making a left turn outside the office of the president’s personal secretary. The chief of staff was right behind and followed the NSA to his office.

“This really hurt him,” Gonzales commented. Having grown up with the president he knew better than most when he was truly affected by events.

“In ‘eighty-six we lost seven astronauts and they postponed the State of the Union,” Bud said. “We lose two thousand the day before Thanksgiving. What do we do with that day, now?”

“We get through it,” Gonzales answered. “And we press on.”

“That wouldn’t sound good in print,” Bud reminded the chief of staff.

“Reality usually doesn’t.”

Darren Griggs pressed the doorbell, the third in an hour, and said a silent prayer.

“Hello?” a young voice answered from inside, the light shining through the peephole fading as someone surveyed the visitor.

“This is Mr. Griggs. I’m Moises’ father. I’m looking for him.”

There was a pause as several locks clicked, then the door slowly opened. A young man looking eerily like his son peered through the still-closed screen at Darren.

“Are you Vincent?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a friend of Moises’?”

“Well, yeah,” the youngster answered hesitantly, the way most teenagers would to a strange adult.

“Have you seen him? Is he here?”

“Here? No, man — I mean Mr. Griggs. I haven’t seen him for a couple weeks.”

Another disappointment. Another negative response. Was it the truth, or just a friend protecting a friend? Darren had to know for sure. “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and his mother and I want him to come home. That’s all. No trouble or anything. We just want him home, with us.”

“He split?” the young man asked, surprised.

Darren nodded. “Please, we just want him to come back home.”

“Really, I don’t know where he is. I’m being straight with you, Mr. Griggs.”

“I see.” Darren pulled a small envelope preaddressed to his son and passed it through the screen’s mail slot. “If you do see him, please give him this.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Thank you, Vincent.” Darren stood motionless as the door swung shut, and as the locks clicked again, then walked away from the porch of the well-kept home in south Los Angeles. It was dark out, just three hours shy of a new day, a time when “bad things happened to good people.” A time when there were few reasons to venture out.

Darren Griggs had only one, and that singular reason was enough.

“Shit!” Roger swore, his head angling forward to get a full view of the flashing lights in his side view mirror.

“What?” Darian asked as he came out of a light sleep, an answer becoming unnecessary as a bright white light pierced the interior of the Olds from the rear.

“What’s going on?” Moises asked as his own slumber was interrupted. He started to turn to look through the back window, but that action was cut off by Darian’s strong left arm, which swung across his chest like a roller-coaster restraint bar.

Mustafa rose up from his curl in the front seat and carefully eyed the right-side mirror. “Just one car.”

“Where the hell are we?” Darian asked, rolling the stiffness from his neck, and easing the zipper of the gym bag between him and Moises open.

“Utah, somewhere around Provo.” A quick blast of siren made Roger jump. “Man, we either gotta run or pull over.”

“Provo!” Darian said just below a yell. “I told you to take the Seventy!”

“I thought you said don’t take the Seventy.”

“Are you a fool? You’re taking us right up to Salt Lake, Ogden, and all the other big cities.” Darian’s hands felt for his weapon, but it was empty. There was no time to fish for a magazine. He felt for the one Mustafa had added to the bag. It was still loaded at that time. He found his comrade’s Ingram and deftly removed its suppressor without looking and blindly made certain a round was chambered. “There aren’t more than a handful of brothers in the whole state and you’re taking us straight into whiteville.” He lowered the zipper on his jacket and slid the Ingram in the left side, safety off. “Pull over. Shit.” He looked slightly toward Moises. “Whatever you do, don’t lean forward, Brother.”

Moises took a deep breath and put his foot over the gym bag that Darian had let slide to the floor of the Olds. “Okay.”

Trooper Michael Fitzroy eased his Utah Highway Patrol cruiser to the emergency shoulder of the interstate and made sure his spotlight was focused fully on the Cutlass’s interior before taking the mic in hand. “Trooper Six David, Provo, traffic stop at Seventy-five connector to I-Fifteen.” Fitzroy, an eight-year veteran of the UHP, waited for acknowledgment from his dispatcher before taking his hand-held radio from its charger and stepping from the cruiser, stopping after only a half-step when the one new procedure — some called it a bother — that had slipped his mind flashed in his thoughts. A quick lean back into the car took care of it, and then he approached the older-model Cutlass on the driver’s side, right hand on his holstered weapon and left hand holding the heavy flashlight high to get a good angle into the vehicle.

“How y’all doing tonight?” Fitzroy asked the driver through the open front window as his eyes scanned the inside of the vehicle. Four male blacks, no obvious open containers, no smell of alcohol or marijuana. Just the glassy stares of men who’d been on the road a long time. The driver especially, and that was his concern.

“Fine,” Roger answered, looking up past the bright spot of light shining down at him. “Did I do something wrong?”

“How long have you been driving?”

“Quite a while.”

“Well, you were weaving a bit back there.” Again Trooper Fitzroy sniffed the air. Still nothing, but there was a bit of an edge to this guy’s voice. “You crossed into the adjacent lanes at least four times.”

Shithead! Darian leaned forward a bit, crossing his arms on his knees, one finger touching the cold grip of the Ingram. I told you to wake one of us if you got tired!

“I’m sorry,” Roger said, averting his eyes to look straight ahead. “I guess I’m a little tired.”

Mmm hmm . “Okay, I want to make sure of that for myself. Do you have your license and registration with you?”

“Yes, sir.” Roger patted his jacket, feeling for the wallet.

“Just leave it in there,” Fitzroy said. “I’m gonna give you a field sobriety test to…”

Damn! Once he was out of the car the pig would ask him where he was heading. Then he’d bring in reinforcements and do the same with each of them separately. Dammit! Darian was cursing himself now for not planning for this contingency. They should have had a singular story all fleshed out to use in just such an instance. As it was there was only one thing to do.

“…check for any impairment. Would you—” Fitzroy’s words froze in his throat as the movement came quick and unexpected from the backseat. He swiveled the flashlight to the rear of the car to illuminate whatever was going on as his right thumb released the topstrap on his holster. The beam of white went not to the faces — faces might frighten, but they are not dangerous — but to the hands, which were on the occupant’s lap. The far occupant was reaching across and toward the window with — NO!