Part 1 (2/2)
”Amen, brother.” Before integrating the ADS onto the airplane, they'd tested it on themselves. It was disorienting and unpleasant, to say the least, but not damaging.
He was willing to take that searing discomfort and more to power through developing this particular brainchild, a personal quest for him. He could have been on the side of the evil cheerleader today if not for one person: a half-crazy old war vet who took on screwed-up teens that most good citizens avoided on the street. Don Ba.s.sett had never asked for anything in return.
Until this morning.
Vince relegated that BlackBerry e-mail he'd received minutes before takeoff to the back of his mind. ”No time to get complacent, everybody. Keep looking. I can't imagine our activist with the automatic weapon is alone.”
The system had the capability to sweep the whole group with a broader band, but he hoped that wouldn't be necessary, as it would likely shut down voting altogether.
Bada.s.s Barbie shook his head quickly, looked around, then leapt toward his AK-47 lying in the dust.
Berg centered the crosshairs again. ”I think he needs another taste.”
Vapor replied, ”Roger. Cleared to fire.”
”Firing . . .”
The rabble-rouser again launched into some kind of erratic pep rally routine.
”Stay on him.” Vince eyed the monitor, heart drumming in time with the roaring engines. ”Run him away from the crowd.”
Berg kept the crosshairs planted on the troublemaker as he attempted to escape the heat. The wiry man sidled away. Faster. Faster again, until he gave up and broke into a sprint, disappearing around a corner of the building.
h.e.l.l, yeah.
Vince continued banking left over the village so the cameras could monitor the horde. As hoped, the crowd seemed to chat among themselves for a while, some looking up at the plane, discussing, then slowly re-forming a line to the church.
Cheers from the crew zipped through the headset for one full circle around the now-peaceful gathering. Things could still stir up in a heartbeat, but the pop from the ADS had definitely increased the odds for the good guys.
G.o.d, he loved it when a plan came together. ”Crew, let's run an oxygen check and get back in the game.”
His crew called in one by one in the same order as specified in the aircraft technical order, ending with him.
Vince monitored his oxygen panel. ”Pilot check complete.”
With luck, the rest of the election would go as smoothly, and they would be back in the good ole U.S. of A. tomorrow night.
Five peaceful hours later, Vince cranked the yoke, guiding the AC-130 into a roll, heading for the base, where he would debrief this mission and lay out plans for their return home.
And contact Don Ba.s.sett.
Vince finally let the message flood his mind. He couldn't simply ignore the note stored on his BlackBerry. The e-mail scrolled through his head faster than data on his control panel: I need your help. My daughter's in danger.
That in and of itself wasn't a surprise. Ba.s.sett's only daughter had been flirting with death before she even got her braces off. Her parents kept bailing out Shay's ungrateful b.u.t.t. What did surprise him, however, was Don asking for help. The dude was a giver, not a taker. It meant that, for whatever reason, he must be desperate.
Not that the reason even mattered. Whatever the old guy wanted, he could have. If not for Don Ba.s.sett's intervention seventeen years ago, Vince wouldn't need a motorcycle or airplane to transport him from his f.u.c.ked-up world.
Because seventeen years ago, he'd led the riots.
Seventeen years ago, one of his fellow gang members had been gunned down by cops just doing their jobs.
Seventeen years ago, he could have been looking at twenty-five to life.
CLEVELAND, OHIO: TWO DAYS LATER.
”Suicide hotline. This is Shay.” Shay Ba.s.sett wheeled her office chair closer to her desk. Tucking the phone under her chin, she shoved aside the steaming cup of java she craved more than air.
”I need help,” a husky voice whispered.
Shay snagged a pencil and began jotting notes about the person in crisis on the other end of the line: Male.
Teen?
”I'm here to listen. Could you give me a name to call you by?” Something, anything to thread a personal connection through the phone line.
”John, I'm John, and I hurt so much. If I don't get relief soon, I'll kill myself.”
His words clamped a corpse-cold fist around her heart. She understood the pain of these callers, too much so, until sometimes she struggled for objectivity.
Shay zoned out everything but the voice and her notes.
Voice stronger, deeper.
Older teen.
Background noise, soft music.
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