Captive-in-Chief (6 page)

Clay was in his office at 2.47 a.m. Sleep had evaded him and he had spent the night trying not to think about the threats to his daughters. News channels were playing out the unrest across the nation. Major cities were struggling to cope with the vast crowds that had gathered to protest. It was no surprise the worst trouble spots were Atlanta, Georgia and Ferguson, Missouri as black Americans reacted to the senseless killings.

“Mr. President,” said his Homeland Security Advisor, strolling into his office.

“Bill,” said the president. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nope, especially since it keeps getting worse.”

“What now?”

“The three young men executed in Ferguson.”

“What about them?”

“University students, unblemished records, not so much as a traffic violation between them.”

“Oh dear God. Has the news broken yet?”

A shake of Bill’s head confirmed Clay’s worst fears; it was going to get worse. The previous riots had been quelled to some extent by the questionable police record of the victim. That was no longer the case; these were three totally innocent young men executed in their prime while in handcuffs, by a white police officer.

“Things were calming down, tonight I fear will be far worse though. The authorities were ready for it and managed to keep the unrest contained. Tonight…God only knows…”

“I wish I thought you were wrong. Anything we can do?”

“Unless the governors ask for our help, we have to leave them to it. Even then we’re limited. The Posse Comitatus Act prevents the use of military force for domestic law enforcement.”

“I know, I know, I wish I could do more. The country is in turmoil and we’re sitting here helpless.”

“We’ve got demonstrations in major cities, yes,” Bill said, “though it’s hardly nationwide. People aren’t taking to the streets in vast numbers.”

“Not yet,” Clay said. “What happens when they hear the three young men were complete innocents, not that it’ll matter to some, they’d react whatever the case. We’re talking about the silent majority. What happens if they stand up? What if they say enough is enough? You know the statistics, why is it that nearly half of our prison population are black Americans, yet they account for only 13% of the population? A black American man has a one in three chance of spending time in a prison in his lifetime and is more likely to receive a tougher sentence than a white American found guilty of the same crime. There are more black men in prison than in college, and that is seriously worrying. We need to turn the tide and fix this, but how in the hell do we do that?”

“Drugs, poverty, neighborhoods, education, you name it, we’ve studied the issues. There are countless reports that point to the fact it’s not a color issue.”

“Yet our system sure as hell works like it is! Almost every crime stat you look at, black Americans top the charts. It’s the old saying…you’re not paranoid if everyone’s out to get you.”

“So you’re saying we’re institutionally racist.”

“Good God no. I’m saying I can understand the groundswell of feeling against the system and authority, though that sure as hell doesn’t make the protestors right. We need to invest in the youth, give them opportunities outside of criminality, give them role models to look up to and not ex-cons. Give them an education every bit as good as the one the rich white kids get.”

“Where’s that money materializing from?”

“That’s the multi-billion dollar question,” pondered Clay. “Whatever the case, none of that is an overnight solution.”

“And in the meantime?”

“We do everything we can to protect the citizens, exactly what we have been elected to do.”

“What about when that doesn’t work?” Bill asked somberly.

That was something Clay wasn’t prepared to consider yet. He watched the footage from L.A. that was being beamed live on the TV. It was just after midnight there. Though the protestors were causing the police some problems, the police appeared to have it under control. News helicopters crowded the sky, desperate to find a major story. So far, only minor skirmishes were reported as the protesters were kept in line by overwhelming police numbers. The Ferguson news was going to break soon. When that happened, L.A. and the West Coast would explode, unlike the East Coast, where numbers had already dropped away as protestors having made their voices heard and headed home to bed.

“Can you do me a favor?” asked Clay.

Bill listened and nodded. He’d make it happen.

The pounding of the music abated as the band exited the stage after their last song. It had been another spectacular performance by the world’s leading rock band. Tickets for the exclusive show at the Fox Pomona had sold out in less than a second, it was to be their most intimate tour date and a thank you to the venue for believing in them prior to their hitting it big. Only 1,700 lucky fans managed to get tickets for the Pomona gig. For the previous two years the band had exclusively performed multi-night stadium tours.

Of the 1,700 only 200 had secured an invite to the after show party, a number due to their corporate ties, another fifty selected apparently at random from the fans. However if anyone were to ever isolate the selected fifty, they’d find them to be amongst the most attractive of the attendees, all female, and in their late teens to early 20s. The band liked to get to know their female fans much better and the more intimate the better.

Zane Tate was the lead singer of the band and quite possibly the most famous and most recognized person in America. The band’s good boy image had ensured his face promoted at least one product in each of the major product sectors, whether it be Pepsi or Coca-Cola, Ford
or
General Motors.
Whatever the sector, the major competitors knew that Zane would mean increased sales
.
Mothers and daughters loved him, while fathers and sons wanted to be him. America didn’t have a royal family, if they did, Zane would have been their one and only prince.

“We’re a bit concerned,” said Brian, the band’s head of security, as Zane led his band offstage.

Zane half listened as he walked, the good boy smiling image reserved for the public. In private, fame had consumed him, and his diva-esque tantrums and demands were a closely guarded secret. In short, whatever Zane wanted, Zane got.

“What now, Brian? Is there a fourteen-year-old girl in the crowd that loves me so much she wants to kill me?”

“No. There’s been some pretty nasty rioting across L.A. over the last few hours and it appears to be spreading. We’re thinking we should make a move now and abandon the balcony appearance.”

“Just do your fucking job. You get paid to keep me safe, not to tell me what to do.”

Brian hit the transmit button on his in-ear system and radioed to his team of ten security professionals. They looked after the band 24/7 and had been augmented by local security, stewards, and local law enforcement for the gig in Pomona. A number of scuffles had already been reported outside as fans queued to see the band in what was rumored to be an impromptu balcony gig for the thousands of fans who couldn’t get tickets. Brian didn’t like it although as Zane had made abundantly clear, Brian was paid to handle it, not like it.

Zane moved towards the rooftop terrace where the after show party was already underway. He had his eyes on one girl. He’d spotted her in the queue on the way in and had asked for her and her friends to receive some of the special invites. Brian followed him while the rest of the band broke off. Their squeaky clean image was not the façade Zane’s was. Two were in long-term relationships, while the fourth member was married. Behind closed doors Zane partied hard and the younger looking the groupie the better. Two very quiet out of court settlements had already saved him from facing statutory rape charges and had made two young women very wealthy.

Zane scanned the crowd from the doorway. He liked to see which girls he wanted before he entered. L.A. had some exceptionally beautiful girls, particularly the young, pre-plastic ones. There were over 300 people there, and his eyes focused on one. Older than his normal, but he had to have her. He had seen her previously, although never in the flesh. She was even more beautiful in real life.

“Get her to my dressing room for after the balcony show,” he said, pointing out the blonde dancing with two friends.

Brian followed Zane’s finger. He thought she looked familiar.

“You’re joking, right?” he asked. His job was to keep him safe not get him laid. However, she was of legal age, the one thing he had been tasked by the management company to try and control after Zane’s two costly episodes with sixteen-year-olds.

Zane walked into the bar and immediately became public Zane, his smile reappearing and his adoring fans drowning him with his much deserved adulation.

He winked at the girl and looked to Brian. He expected Brian to do the work for him, have her waiting for him like a piece of meat after he had finished his show. Brian walked over as instructed and whispered in the girl’s ear, under the close eye of her friends and fellow partygoers.

Her face burst into a smile. She was being invited back to meet the one and only Zane Tate.

Zane watched the interaction as he fielded the adoration, noted the smile and look from her, then made his excuses to his fans and left. The anticipation of nailing her had him rushing back to get his band. As soon as the balcony gig was over he could enjoy the rest of the night.

Brian caught up with them as they neared the balcony door. The chant “
We want Zane
,” had started as soon as the concert inside had finished. Sirens cut through the chants, and Brian radioed to a few men they had placed outside in the crowd.

“All okay?” he asked.

“There’s a strange vibe,” replied one of the security men, struggling to talk above the chants from the crowd around him. “It’s beginning to feel a little tense out here, the police are getting jumpy. There are reports of a few officers being attacked in L.A. coming through. Some of the crowd has been peeling away as the tension rises with others filling their spaces.”

“The sooner we get this over and done with the better,” Brian said to Zane, and for once Zane agreed with him, although not for the same reason.

Brian nodded to his security team, who filed out onto the balcony to a huge roar from below. The eight men arranged themselves at the far corners and, after a visual check below, gave the okay for the band to come out.

Zane played up to the crowd below. The crowd surged forward when he appeared, held back by the makeshift barriers that lined the parking lot.

Brian, a former soldier and cop, didn’t like it one bit. The scene below wasn’t right. The band’s following was predominantly young, affluent, aged 14–30, predominantly female, with a small male following. They were also without exception in the three years he had been with the band, almost entirely white. If he had to guess, he’d say 90% of every audience, even in far more mixed environments, were white. The first few rows of the audience fit the usual profile. Despite the band starting to play, fans were moving away. As his security officer had told him, as they moved out the spaces filled up. He looked to the back of the crowd at the newcomers. Almost entirely black, young males, probably 18 to 40, and most definitely not the normal demographic.

The police numbers were growing as well. The TV crews that lined the streets to record the impromptu gig were taking note themselves and their focus moved from Zane and the band to the crowd.

Brian stepped back into the building and shut the balcony door, pressing his intercom.

“Police Commander, this is head of Band Security, come in please.”

“Brian, I was about to contact you. We’re closing this down immediately. Reinforcements are en route. Intelligence has come in that a major protest is planned.”

A scream ripped through the thousands of watts of music power. Zane rushed through the door, nearly knocking Brian to the ground.

“It’s fucking crazy out there!” he shouted, racing to his dressing room.

Brian had to wait for the rest of the band to exit the balcony before he could see what was happening. His security team rushed in behind, lumps of curb, bricks, and broken barrier raining down on them, thrown from the crowd below, nothing like the usual panties and bras,

The police tried in vain to resist the massive surge as the crowd pushed towards the entrance. The genuine fans tried desperately to get away but were used as a buffer to attack the police. Young girls in flimsy clothing with blood running from wounds filled his vision, their weightless bodies being crashed into the barriers and police as the mass of protestors pushed from behind. It was chaos.

The dull thud of chopper blades pulsed in his chest. Police flooded into the lobby below as the protestors pushed through the fans and began to attack the police, their apparent target, head on.

The chopper landed above, shaking the building. He had to get to Zane and the band and get them out. It had been quick thinking by the chopper pilot, he thought. They were stationed a mile or so away, awaiting Brian’s signal. However, they had obviously seen the protestors and come anyway. Thank God.

Brian raced through the building towards the dressing room area. The police and security were losing ground; the protestors were already breaking into the lobby.

Zane rushed into his dressing room, where the girl was awaiting his return. He hardly looked at her as he grabbed his bag and stuffed his personal items into it.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“It’s chaos out there, a full blown riot!” he said, panicking. He looked around desperately, checking he had all of his possessions. “Maybe another time?” he offered as Brian crashed through the door.

“Is she coming?” asked Brian. Zane shook his head and pushed past him. Brian threw her an apologetic look.

A four-man team surrounded Zane while the rest of the band had to make do with only two-men teams. Brian brought up the rear, his ten men and the band pushing onwards towards the rooftop. The lobby, he could hear through his intercom, was overrun and the police had effectively abandoned the building. For the band and anyone still in the building, there was no other way out other than the choppers above.

Gunshots cut through the screaming and shouting as what was supposed to be a celebration of the band’s achievements spiraled into a full scale riot.

“Where is she?” screamed one of the friends of Zane’s abandoned conquest. Brian indicated back towards the dressing rooms. The three girls pushed past them and on towards the sounds of the onrushing rioters. Brian waved his team towards the roof. He shouldn’t have left the girl behind, and he certainly shouldn’t have asked for Zane’s approval. He turned and rushed after the girls, the sound of footsteps crashing up the stairs below him. Brian knew the building inside out. He made it his business to know any building his protectees were in. The first rioters had reached the top of the stairs as he rushed after the girls. He looked back down the length of the corridor to where his team was already pushing through the door that would lead the band to the roof. They were well ahead of the rioters and, secure in the knowledge his protectees were safe, he pushed on after the girls. Four very attractive young women caught up in a riot, he didn’t even want to think what could happen to them.

“We can’t get on the helicopter!” came a panicked shout in Brian’s ear. It was one of his team.

“Get on and leave me here, I’ll fend for myself,” he said, his breath catching as he forced his way through the first rioters. He was a big guy and nobody seemed interested in taking him on.

The crowd surged against him, forcing him back towards the stairs. The rioters were moving back, away from the girls he was trying to protect.

“You’re not the problem, it’s the chopper – it’s not ours!”

“Offer them whatever you have to, just get the band out of here!”

“Get me the fuck out of here!” Zane shouted in the background, his voice breaking into full diva mode.

“I don’t care if it costs a million, get the band on that chopper!” demanded Brian, now forced to move with the mass of rioters.

“They’re laughing at us, offering them money!”

“For the love of God, man, offer them whatever you have to, ten million, I don’t care. Get the band off this fu—”

Brain could finally see what was creating the backward surge of rioters. He was back at the top of the stairs and as he was pushed backwards down the corridors, a number of the rioters ahead of him went back down the stairs. He could see what was creating the backswell. The four girls were working their way down the corridor. Three were armed and threatening to kill anyone who didn’t get out of their way. The fourth girl, Zane’s potential conquest, was being shielded by the other three girls. Their FN P90 short stubby machine guns were up and he had no doubt they were prepared to use them. Three men lay flat out, further back down the corridor.

Brian hadn’t heard any shots and wondered what had happened until a man broke ranks and rushed at the girls. The P90 was dropped by one of the girls, its strap around her shoulder meant it fell no further than her waist. She snapped her foot out, catching the man perfectly in the kneecap, following with an elbow to the side of the man’s head. His head snapped back and he dropped to the floor, if he was lucky, unconscious. The P90 was back in her hand in an instant and up and ready for action.

“Whose chopper is it?” Brian asked into his headset.

Before he could get an answer a burst of sustained and deafening automatic gun fire tore through every shout and scream, silencing the building. It came from behind him, where the band was. He spun around. Ten heavily armed US Marines were rushing towards him, he didn’t need an answer to his question when he realized why the girl Zane had chosen looked familiar.