by Jeff Taylor
“It’s not so bad,” he finally answered. “I get to meet some very interesting people. I don’t have to deal with any deadlines or reports. No beat to pound or drunken street thugs to tame. Good meals, decent hours; not much to complain about really. I mean, just this last week, Julia and I went deep sea fishing on her dad’s yacht. I would never have been able to do anything like that on my cop salary.”
Drake chuckled. “Maybe I should apply,” he said, sarcastically.
Strinnger hesitated in answering. “Maybe you should,” he finally replied.
“Yeah, right.” Drake replied. He then turned back around to Strinnger with a disbelieving expression. The look that met him was anything but insincere. “Wait a minute, you really mean that.”
Strinnger nodded. “You’re more than qualified. You now know the routine and call signals when we watch our subjects. Not to mention you’re in perfect physical condition. I could get you on tonight, permanently, no strings attached.”
He could tell the invitation stunned Drake and he let the proposal sink in for a moment before pursuing it further. “And besides,” he paused, bending down so that his mouth was in line with Drake’s ear, “we’re going to the moon tomorrow. What other job in the world can give you that kind of scenery?”
His friend’s eyes opened wide. Strinnger was about to seal the deal with promises of meeting more supermodels when an urgent voice sounded in his earpiece.
“Sir? We have a situation here,” Arla called out.
Both men stiffened and brought their focus back to the matter at hand.
“Go ahead,” Strinnger ordered.
“Two possible targets approaching fast from the north and east. They’re pushing their way through the crowd, and seem pretty focused on our girl. Red shirt under corduroy jacket and light blue shirt shredded on the shoulders,” she described.
Strinnger leaned closer to the monitor and replied. “I see them. There’s another one by the door, Tom. Black shirt, slightly spiked hair, has a camera in his shirt pocket.”
“I see him,” Tom affirmed.
Like a master strategist placing his pieces on the chessboard, Strinnger moved his team into position.
“Arla, move up on targets, keep north target in sight. Drake and I are closer than the rest of you up on the catwalk. We’ll secure the subject and neutralize east target.”
Each team member acknowledged the order and Drake followed Strinnger to the door.
The music volume was even more crippling than Strinnger remembered as he stepped out into the club, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from his purpose. Quickly, he located Julia dancing with a different guy than he’d just seen on the screen, this one slightly taller than she with short, curly brown hair. Strinnger turned back toward Drake and pointed to the man in the red shirt swiftly approaching the unsuspecting couple. Drake nodded and moved in their direction.
Strinnger made his way toward Julia. He drew nearer to his charge growing increasingly upset. But this percolating anger was surprisingly unrelated to Julia’s behavior, or the eager trio he supposed to be paparazzi closing in on her. He was jealous. Jealous of the leering youth violating the young woman with their eyes; jealous of the way she enjoyed their attention. He knew he shouldn’t feel that way. She was the daughter of his employer, a party girl, and he himself was engaged to be married soon. The attraction had always been there, though. Since their first day together he had fought the urge to flirt, repeatedly catching glimpses of her shapely form and delicate face. Through their adventures over the last few weeks, he had come to care for her as a friend, which only exacerbated the situation further. The frustration boiling in his gut seethed out of him and her unfortunate dance partner felt the brunt of it as Strinnger gripped him on the shoulder and cast him aside as if he were made of paper.
Julia shot him an annoyed glance, “Daeman,” she said reprovingly. She pulled him toward her and gestured to her dance partner. “That was Dathan,” she said, slurring his name as she spoke. She then rose onto her toes so she could reach Strinnger’s ear and whispered, “He’s an artist.”
The young man winked at Strinnger and smiled mischievously at Julia. Strinnger had seen enough. “It’s time to go, Ms. Kratin,” he said sternly gripping her left arm tightly and towing her away.
Julia pleaded, “Oh no, not yet. I don’t want to go to the moon without one more dance with Dathan.”
Unsympathetic, Strinnger continued towing her toward the exit. “I think you’ve danced enough with Dathan.” His large hands locked even more firmly around her arm. Julia tried to squirm out of his hold, but his vice-like grip was too strong for her.
“Tom,” he called into his comm device, “is the front door clear?”
“All clear, sir,” was the gruff reply. “Threat neutralized.”
“Okay team, time to clear out. Everyone to their exits.” Strinnger looked ahead. The door was impossibly blocked by a pack of tightly compacted club-goers. “Get out of the way! Clear a path,” he barked to the crowd, which largely complied except for a few agitated men and women who shot him an annoyed look when he brushed them aside.
As they neared the door, Strinnger noticed a pair of legs protruding upwards from one of the phosphorescent trash cans by the exit, a large black man stood nearby. He smiled. Threat definitely neutralized, Tom. Just as he was about to reach the exit his communicator chimed once more.
“Look out, Daeman!”
Strinnger turned momentarily and looked up at one of his men, Abilja, on the catwalk, who was pointing down to his left. “The guy in the corduroy is reaching into his pocket!”
That was it. Strinnger lengthened his steps, practically dragging the protesting heiress behind him. Suddenly a young blonde woman unexpectedly jumped in front of him impeding their progress.
“For the animals!” she shouted. A .45 caliber pistol was suddenly raised and trained on Julia.
Strinnger dove at the woman and knocked the gun away just as it fired. If the club was chaotic before it was outright bedlam now. All dancing immediately stopped. A collective gasp sucked the air out of the vibrating club and everyone immediately scrambled away from the door rushing over one another to get out of the line of fire. Only the two pursuing men continued their hurried march toward the youngest Kratin.
The blonde would-be assassin lie face down on the ground, Strinnger pressing her head mercilessly against the concrete. He pinned her wrists behind her back with his free hand. Her gun lay ten feet away near the front door. With the woman subdued, Strinnger immediately scanned the room to locate Julia. Tom hovered over her like a hen protecting a chick.
“Get her out of here,” Strinnger shouted.
Tom threw his leather jacket over her head and rushed her toward the door. This time she went with her protector willingly, all protest scared out of her, until she stopped suddenly at Strinnger’s position and dropped to her knees. Grabbing his face with surprising force, she pressed her lips against his. Strinnger was stunned and instantly annoyed. He pushed her back and glared up at Tom.
“Get her out!”
The woman beneath him began to struggle.
“Hold still,” he grunted. He needed a way to restrain the woman until the police arrived. In the old days, he would have had a pair of handcuffs within reach, but now that wasn’t an option. Looking down he saw that the woman wore a long purple scarf. Bracing his grip with one hand, he swiped the scarf from around her neck and used to bind it her hands.
“Sir, those men are still coming,” Abilja shouted in his ear.
Strinnger’s eyes did not leave his subject. “Arla, I’m a little busy here. Any help would be appreciated.”
“We’ve got you, boss,” was the confident reply in his earpiece.
The young man in his mid-twenties wearing the shredded blue shirt emerged from the crowd ten feet away from Strinnger. The former detective looked up at him in time to see a look on his face that Strinnger had seen many times on the faces of gangbange
rs and murderers before an attack. With both hands occupied with the blonde woman and the gun too far away, Strinnger was helpless. The second attacker was only feet away when his face contorted into an expression of extreme pain then crumpled to the floor. Arla, the ponytail of her dark brown hair swaying from her quick movements, stood ten feet from where the young man’s twitching body lay, a glowing stunner radiating in her hand.
“No!” cried the woman beneath Strinnger. He forced her head down harder.
“Quiet you.” He turned to Arla. “What about the other one?”
Drake’s voice sounded in his earpiece. “He’s down. I may have a broken his leg.”
His eyes tracked back to her accomplice. Something near the fallen man glinted in the pulsating light. It a six-inch hunting knife. Attached to its grip was a wide, red ribbon with the words “Animals for Animals” scribed in dark black ink.
“What is going on? Who are you people,” Strinnger shouted down to the blonde underneath him. He grabbed her hair and pulled back her head to show her that he expected an answer.
“We’re here to strike a blow for the thousands of animals a day that are sacrificed so Pierre Von Gin can make his fortune from their hides for vain and oblivious harlots like Julia Kratin!”
“Are you kidding me?” Strinnger was incensed. “This is a political protest?” He pressed her head back down against the floor again. “Unbelievable,” he muttered out loud.
Strinnger wanted to feel in control but his adrenaline was too high and with Julia no longer in his sight he needed to know if she was safe. “Tom, everything okay out there?” he asked, forcing the blonde girl to her feet.
“We’re in the car and on the way back to her apartment.”
Strinnger sighed. “Good,” he acknowledged. The distant sound of sirens grew nearer as he spoke. “It sounds like the black and whites just got here. We’ll take care of this mess. Get Julia home and lock her in her room. Tell her parents nothing until I get there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sometime after the uniformed officers escorted the three assailants away, Strinnger sat in a corner of the club trying to assess what had happened. The excitement had worn off and he was spent. The cold bottle of water one of the EMTs had given him only helped refresh him a little. The bottle swayed in his hands as he stared blankly at it, the thwarted attack far from his mind. The only thing he could think about was the unexpected contact with Julia’s lips.
“Wow, you look rough.”
He looked up and saw Arla standing above him.
“This seat taken,” she asked, sitting at his side. He really did not want to talk to her right then, but motioned for her to sit next to him. “You did good work tonight, boss,” she consoled.
Strinnger huffed, half smiling.
“No, I’m serious,” she protested. “You not only saved the girl, but subdued some wanna-be-terrorists. I call that a good night’s work in our profession.”
“But . . .”
She took a sip of her own water bottle before continuing. “How long have you been assigned to Julia?”
“Three months.”
Arla hesitated. “Look, I know that this isn’t any of my business, you’re both adults, but, is there something going on between you two?”
Strinnger was visibly stunned at the question. “No,” he declared. “She’s my charge, that’s it.”
“Okay, okay,” she replied, hands raised in defense as if Strinnger would jump at her. “Just making sure. I’m worried about you. You see, I believe you, the rest of the team believes you, but,” she pointed an index finger up to the video monitor hanging above the bar just a few meters away, “I don’t know if Daddy Kratin, or the rest of the world for that matter, is going to believe anything but that.”
His eyes followed her gesture. There, frozen in glowing high definition was Julia Kratin, lips pressed to his in what appeared to be a passionate kiss. The headline scrolling under the photograph read, “Grateful Boss, or Secret Affair?”
Strinnger’s stomach dropped into his knees. He lowered his head between his legs and took deep breaths, trying desperately to suppress the urge to vomit. When he finally regained his composure, he sat up and said, “I’m fired.”
Arla silently nodded her agreement, not taking her eyes off the screen. The reporter was quoting some “source” that claimed the couple had been together for some time and were getting serious. “Yep,” Arla agreed, “you’re hosed.”
“Oh,” he groaned, once more fighting the urge to puke, “what am I going to tell Loura? She’ll never believe me.”
Just then, almost as if on cue, the phone rang in his ear. He considered letting it go unanswered. “Who’s your money on,” he asked Arla, “Daddy Kratin or Loura?”
Arla shrugged her shoulders. “If it’s Kratin, ask if you can stay the night at his house. I don’t think Loura will want you home tonight.” She pointed to the monitor once more. Strinnger turned in time to see a stone-faced Loura Lake giving a mechanical, unfeeling recitation of the facts of the attack on the Von Gin Fashions spokesmodel. The girl Strinnger had tackled appeared on the screen as police escorted her from the scene.
“The fashion world made her an example, we were just trying to do the same!” she shouted as she was forced into the squad car.
Loura’s reddening eyes seemed cold, yet broken as she continued. “Although the attack appears to be an act of protest, this is the third violent attack on someone affiliated with Carsus Corp in the last six months. Many sources on Wall Street say they are concerned about the company’s viability if its ownership is constantly dealing with these attacks,” Loura stated.
“Strinnger!”
Strinnger averted his eyes from the train wreck that was rapidly becoming his life and caught sight of the head of Carsus security, Stepan Treyklor, walking briskly toward him with an expression that told him it was over.
“The hits just keep on rolling,” Strinnger sighed. He left his phone ringing in his ear and rose to meet his commanding officer. “Good evening, Mr. Treyklor. You look remarkably well this evening,” he quipped.
“Save it, Strinnger. What exactly happened here tonight?” the senior officer demanded.
Strinnger recounted the night’s events and then followed up his summary with a question.
“I suppose you’re here to terminate my employment?”
The stern look on Treyklor’s face was unfazed by the question. He kept his hard stare locked on Strinnger.
“Not right now. I still need you. The flight to Selene station is at oh-eight hundred hours and I don’t have anyone who can replace you or your training this late in the game. No matter how much the board hollers and complains, you’re getting on that shuttle tomorrow if it kills me. Chalk this one up to experience and move on.”
Strinnger nodded at his superior’s words, trying to keep his head up and show some self-dignity.
“But,” Treyklor continued, “I am taking you off Julia’s detail. You’ll switch places with Dwin and guard Nathaniel.”
“I understand, sir,”
Treyklor studied him for a moment longer and when he spoke it was with a tone that Strinnger had never heard the old man use before. “Daeman,” he said in a low voice, “getting in with the boss’s daughter is a bone-headed thing to do. I know you know that. But I think you need to know that Nathaniel is extremely protective when it comes to his youngest daughter. Tina can handle herself, but Julia is more susceptible to life’s challenges. He handpicked you to guard his precious Julia not only because of your skills, but also because he knew you wouldn’t get involved with her. After tonight, though, that perception will change and he will make your life incredibly hard from this day forward. So don’t dwell on the assumption that I am promoting you by putting you on his team.”
Once more, Strinnger nodded. “Understood, sir.”
The silver-haired man nodded and turned to leave, but Strinnger suddenly felt compelled to ask him one more question. Reachin
g out, he firmly took hold of the chief’s arm.
“Sir, I know I am not in a position to be asking anything right now, but I do have a request to make of you.”
Treyklor was not amused. “No, you’re not. What is it?”
Strinnger took a deep breath and continued. “There was an off-duty officer here assisting me on watch tonight, Ferdinand Drake. He was my partner with the police force and I was hoping there would be a place for him on our team. I spoke with him tonight about the possibility of coming to work for us full-time. I was hoping you would see him as an asset worth our attention.”
An awkward silence hung between them. Strinnger wasn’t sure if Treyklor was considering hiring Drake or putting Strinnger through the transparent dance floor beneath them.
“Qualifications?”
“Air Force Academy graduate; served two years full-time status in Germany and three years’ experience with SFPD. Physically, he is in excellent condition. Last year he placed third in an extreme endurance competition. With his air force training he has some zero-gravity experience so he would not be coming on completely unprepared for any space assignments.”
Treyklor thought for a moment. “If he files an application I won’t immediately reject it.”
Strinnger considered that to be the closest thing to a ‘yes’ as he was going to get and forced himself not to smile at his triumph. Instead, he merely replied, “Thank you, sir.”
With that matter resolved, Treyklor turned and left the building. Strinnger and Arla finished giving their statements to the police and then did the same.
