Below are the opening pages of Conflagration, a novel about life, death, redemption and the Armageddon written by Charles King Byrne under the pseudonym C.K. Byrne

Friday night

“Unit 34, respond to report of shooting, 13445 West Martin Luther King Blvd. Code 3 “

The call came like so many others, the monotone, unexciteable voice of some anonymous female over the radio.

Miguel was riding alone that night.  With the flowing flick of his hand that only comes from repetition of a familiar move, he slid the mic from it’s holder, and in a breath of a moment was responding to the call.

“Copy, dispatch, car 34 in route E.T.A. 15 minutes.

“Copy 34 20,23”

Miguel looked at his watch, almost 8 thirty?  He thought.  Sure enough, it was 20,23.

Another Friday night, probably another drive by.  They were getting more and more frequent in that part of town.  With another unconsidered flash of his hand, the 30-something officer flipped no less than 3 switches.  The lightbar on top of the black and white cruiser sprang to life in flashes of blue, white and red, and the car began its pitiful wail that Miguel had long ago learned to ignore.  His foot pressed to the floor lurching him and his cruiser into another rushed trip across town.   The late model Chevy Lumina sped through the streets, its headlights slicing through the combination of moonlight and occasional streetlamp glow. In an instant, Officer Pike and his patrol car turned quiet back streets into neighborhoods aglow with flashing streaks of red, white and blue lights.  Darkened alleys, shadowed brick walls, and specter-like barren trees were suddenly painted with colorful strokes of a luminescent brush, then just as suddenly abandoned, reverting back to their bland gray and black world.  Mixed in with the closed strip malls and retail outlets that sped by in a blur, an older brick house or building would defiantly stand proudly where it had been for 60, maybe 80 years.  As the emergency lights colored buildings new and old alike, it was impossible not to notice how rare the older structures were getting.  The city had grown so much since he was a child running through these very streets, there were now parts of town he didn’t seem to recognize.  Right now, he was heading into one of them.

How young, how innocent, or rather how naive he had been back then.  Running through the streets with kids his mother didn’t really approve of.  Riding his bike until it was well past dark. Worried about his teacher’s response for not finishing his homework.  Occasionally opening up a fire hydrant when the summer heat and boredom needed to be quelled.  It was hard for him to imagine that nowadays, kids were concerned about being shot at school.  So much had changed.  Miguel remembered being a kid, growing up in the poorest part of “Little Mexico.” Sure, they were broke... but even in poverty committing a crime wasn’t conceivable for a 14-year old boy.  Pranks were one thing, but shooting someone?  Stealing?  Rape?  These things weren’t even options to a child in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains.  Well, Not back then.

 He had known grown-ups who had run-ins with the law, but that was always a grown-up thing.  His Uncle, only 7 years older than Miguel, had been arrested for involvement in the school riots in ’72.  He served a little time.  In retrospect, that was probably the genesis of Miguel’s desire to become a police officer.  Even at that young age, Miguel knew there was right and wrong, and someone had to be sure that what was right flourished.  Someone had to serve on the front lines, assuring that the “bad guys” didn’t win.  Miguel saw his career as one of the most righteous callings he could imagine, and he was proud to do his part.

  How things had changed, he thought.   11 years, no, it was twelve years ago that he graduated at the top of his class at the academy.  Twelve years of breaking up domestic squabbles, pulling over speeders, serving warrants, and writing endless reports.  At the moment, he was dreading the hours of paperwork that lie ahead of him.  All these drive-bys had 2 things in common.  One, the perpetrator would never be caught, and two, the investigation would be endless.  Find every shell (which could number in the hundreds if an Uzi or some other “full-auto” was used.)  Question the witnesses.  Talk to known trouble makers in the neighborhood.  Wait for ballistics to return their report. Investigate more. Question again.  Return to the neighborhood. On and on...  Things like this could be never ending, and with the frequency of shootings on the rise.....

Miguel let go a deep sigh.  There were times he really wished he were a plumber.  Especially if ...

The dreadful thought crossed his mind – “I just hope there aren’t any victims.”  The images of every child, mother and grandparent who had been claimed or injured in one of these shootings flashed through his mind not unlike the streetlights passing outside his windows.  26.  He had witnessed first-hand twenty-six victims with bullet holes.  Four never made it back home from the hospital, 3 of them kids.  “Oh God I hope there aren’t victims” he whispered.  Time and again, he had promised himself he wouldn’t recall the victims.  He would never dwell on the gruesome sights he had been forced to witness, to document, to relate.  He would force himself to forget.  And yet, in times like this, he always failed in his promise.  The faces, the wounds, the bodies, the sounds, the smell of burnt skin and gunpowder always filled his memory.  “Oh God, I hope there aren’t victims.”

His estimated time of arrival had been off.  He covered the distance in 9 minutes, not 15.  The trees surrounding the apartment building gave a false sense of tranquility to the neighborhood.  Of course the sweeping, swirling red gang symbols painted on the whitewashed walls did enough to counteract any sense of security or peace.  Miguel had been here before, too many times.

Parking the cruiser, lights still flashing, Miguel turned off the siren and stepped out to assess the area.  He reached into the front seat to grab the mic.  “Dispatch, Unit 34 on scene.”

“Copy 34, Building B as in Boy, unit 302.   Ongoing D.V. situation.  Proceed with caution and await backup.  Perpetrator is still present in building.”  Miguel winced; he hated domestic violence calls.

“How many people have we got?”

“Three are believed to be present in the apartment. The perp, her boyfriend, and the boyfriend’s son.”

“Her?  The perp is female?”

“Affirmative. Name, Jennifer Bowen B-O-W-E-N.    Caller was in adjoining apartment.  Reports overheard argument. Said apparently the girlfriend has the gun.”

“Copy.”

“Copy 34. 20,33” the dispatcher closed the conversation.

Miguel leaned back through the open car door into the front seat and snapped the mic into its holder just as the second patrol car pulled up.  Out of it stepped an officer Miguel had known since their High School days.  Blonde hair, somewhat short in stature, like Miguel, and with a soft impish face that came from his Irish father.  Charlie and Miguel had remained close friends since the day they had met .  Poker games, double dates (back when they both were dating), trips out to Vegas, Denver Bronco games, there were few things in life Charlie and Miguel hadn’t shared in one way or another.  Before they were cops, Miguel and Charlie helped tear down the goal posts at Mile High Stadium when the Broncos went to their first Super Bowl.  Miguel would never forget the look on young Charlie’s face that day as the post he was straddling slowly stooped sideways and came crashing into the endzone crowd.  They had entered the academy together 13 long years ago, although you would never guess it from Charlie’s boyish face.  He looked fresh out of boot camp.  Miguel, for whatever reason found himself on the “fast track” as far as promotions and advancements, while Charlie had been content to accept whatever accolades came his way.  Fortunately, the disparity between the ranks hadn't had the slightest effect on their friendship.  As far as the two officers were concerned, they were comrades and equals, regardless of the number of stripes either one had.  Now, as so many times before, they found themselves sharing such a moment of camaraderie and friendship.  Miguel started briefing Charlie before even reaching his buddy’s car “They’re up in B-302.  The girlfriend-“

“I heard.  Sounds funky to me.  You’ve got rank here, buddy.  How do you wanna’ handle it?”

Miguel took a moment to catch his breath; he hated having to call the shots.  He looked his old friend in the eye without bravado or timidity, just a look of someone with an unpleasant duty that must be served.  With a sigh, he said, “Let’s go see what’s up.”

As the two men paced their way to the open wooden stairwell, the cold August air chilled their cheeks.  In his twelve years, Miguel had never been forced to aim his gun at anyone.  Now, as so many times before, he unbuttoned the holster and eased his revolver from its place.  The two flights of stairs were worn and weathered.  The steps had evidently been painted at some time, but not recently.  Several of the wooden planks gave an inch or two under the weight of the police officers.   Nearing the topmost landing, Miguel and Charlie slowed their pace.  Taking a standard defensive position against the wall, Miguel eased his way up the last remaining steps to the door marked B-302.  The “B” hung upside down, swinging from its bottom tack, a testament to the poor maintenance of the complex.  The door stood slightly ajar, casting a thin gold line of light on the opposite wall.  Inside, over a television with a volume louder than he’d like, Miguel tried to analyze the sounds of an argument that was still in process.   It was difficult to tell whether it was the man or the woman who was crying, or both.  In the background, from another room, almost too distant to hear, there was a steady thudding of a small fist on a wooden door mingled with a child’s voice pleading “I want my Daddy!  Let me out please!”

Standing with his shoulder to the door jam, back to the wall, Miguel gathered his courage and yelled “Ms. Bowen, My name is Officer Pike, I am with the Police department.  I’d like to talk with you.”

“Get away, I have a gun!” Came the shouted response.

“I understand that, Ms. Bowen.  I need to talk to you; can you put down the gun and let us come inside?  If someone is hurt, we need to know.”

“Stay away!”

“Officer, don’t come in, she’s aiming the gun at the door.”

“Shut up!”  The female voice came in such a rush as to trample David’s last couple of words.

Miguel whispered to Charlie “He’s talking, that’s a good sign.”  His next comment was to the woman holding the gun.  “Can we at least get the boy out of the apartment, I don’t think you want to hurt a little child.”  Only silence answered the Officer

“Ms. Bowen?”

“Okay..... No!  Wait! Shut up!  Get away!”

“Ms. Bowen, you don’t want to make this any worse than it already is.  Please, let’s put down the gun, and let us get the boy.”

Miguel listened with every ounce of concentration he could muster.  The boy in the background was still pleading to see his daddy, his voice growing hoarse from probably an hour of begging through a presumably locked door.

Charlie, next to his old friend, also prone against the wall, leaned toward Miguel whispering “Dispatch says the guy’s name is David.”  Miguel nodded.  Funny, how Charlie and Miguel could answer each other’s unasked questions.

“David?” Miguel shouted through the door.  “Are you all right?”

A wavering, scared voice answered “She shot me in the arm, but I’m okay.  Just bleeding a little.”

“Shut up!  He’s fine!”

Miguel’s listening told him that the woman was crying, as well.  She was flustered.  This told Miguel volumes.  If she was flustered, she wasn’t a sociopath, an individual who could shoot without remorse.  She possibly was a stable woman, currently in a pressured environment.  This could make her either very susceptible to giving up, or could make her a loose cannon.  He decided to take a chance.  “Ms. Bowen?  I’m going to come in now.  Please don’t shoot.  I just have to make sure David and the boy are okay.”  Miguel repositioned the firearm in his hand, taking his finger from the trigger, holding the gun with the barrel pointing harmlessly towards the ceiling.  With that, he eased his hand in front of the open door, showing the woman the gun and the non-threatening way he was holding it, and eased himself slowly into the doorway.

........................................

“RRRRRIIIIIIIING”

“Damnit!  It’s 12 o’clock at night.  Doesn’t anyone in this town sleep?”

            The words that came from the office behind him brought a weary smile to Agent Weton’s face. A mere four years ago a congressman or even a Speaker of the House with his own security detail would have been unheard of.  But then came the rash of terrorist attacks that forced an entire reworking of security assignments throughout Washington DC.  For three years Ray Weton had been assigned to Congressman Shepard’s security detail, and throughout those years, the congressman had never lost his down-home, Alabama candor.  Even when he was elected Speaker only 6 months ago, the papers had been filled with more reports of his “colorful” language than any of his landmark objectives. Yes, things hadn’t changed much in the last three years, as far as Speaker Phil Shepard’s demeanor.

Before his assignment to then-congressman Shepherd, Ray had been a member of the elite presidential security detail.  He had run beside the Presidential Limousine, had stood guard outside the Oval Office itself, and taken shifts up in the 3^rd floor residence of the White House.  The now-10-year veteran of the Secret Service was somewhat dismayed and offended with the reassignment, even though he knew it wasn’t due to any lacking in his loyalty or service.  His transfer rested solely on the fact that the President’s teen aged daughter had a certain way of flirting with Agent Weton, and only Agent Weton.  He could laugh at it now.  In reality, the agency knew Ray was a consummate professional and above reproach.  It was the baseless rumors and suspicions that created his current situation.  And after three years at the Speaker’s side, he had begun to realize his current position wasn’t all that disagreeable.

Like most Secret Service Agents, in training Ray had learned it was not wise to know his assignments on a personal level.  It was much easier to perform your duties if you saw the client as an assignment.  But how could you not warm to this stout southern gentleman who always had a smile for you and a ready commentary on the most recent exploits of the Crimson Tide?  Speaker Shepard was a very kind man, very passionate about his causes, and utterly likable.  When Ray was originally assigned, Congressman Shepard was no more than a senior Representative of a major southern state, and Agent Weton was his only assigned protection.  Now, things were completely different.  As Speaker of the House, Phil Shepard required no less than an entire detail of Secret Service Men and Women.  The detail had its own chain of command, and Ray had chosen to remain in the lower levels.  However, everyone on this side of the Rotunda knew Ray Weton was in charge of the Speaker’s security... no matter what the chain of command said.

            Ray stood vigilantly at the door of the Speaker’s front office.  In his Navy days, he would have called the position an “at ease,” but so many years had passed since his days at Annapolis, the term never crossed his mind any more.

“This is Speaker Shepard.” Ray heard the man in the other room answer. “Yes, I’ll hold.” Then, after a brief pause, “Good Evening Mr. Vice President.”  This was followed by an extremely long pause in which the Speaker was evidently listening to the caller.  “I’d be honored, Thank you for asking-“ (pause) “When exactly are we leaving?”  “I’ll have my assistant make the arrangements.” (pause)  “Certainly ... and how long will we be there? .... Excellent! ...  Thank you again, Mr. Vice President.”

Raymond heard the phone receiver fall back into its cradle.

“Ray!”

Rounding the corner to the Speaker’s private office, Agent Weton stood tall with confidence, his frame almost filling the open doorway.  He wasn’t a particularly built man, yet his size was enhanced by his strong presence.  A full 6 foot 3 inches tall, with chestnut hair cut tight in almost a Marine type fashion.  His face was sculpted yet softly set off by the palest of blue eyes.  He stood with a smile facing the Speaker. “Where are we going?”

........................................

            Stephanie Cole was getting her third cup of coffee when she heard something on the police scanner that caught her attention.

“Dispatch, Unit 34 on scene.”

“Copy 34, Building B as in Boy, unit 302.   Ongoing D.V. situation.  Proceed with caution and await backup.  Perpetrator is still present in building.

“How many people are we dealing with?”

“3 are believed to be in the apartment. The perp, her boyfriend, and the boyfriend’s son.”

“Her?  The perp is female?”

“Affirmative. Name, Jennifer Bowen B-O-W-E-N.    Caller was in adjoining apartment.  Reports overheard argument. Said apparently the girlfriend has the gun.”

“Hmmm... “ Steph murmured.  Not many female gun-toting perpetrators in this world, she thought.  Denver might not be New York or LA., but that’s a horse of a different color in any television market.  She looked at her notes from 10 minutes ago. “13445 West M L King Blvd.” Better get a crew out there, this could be interesting.  She grabbed her coat, her microphone, and her notebook and headed down the hall to get her crew.

........................................

            The apartment was actually in much better shape than Miguel had expected.  The ivory colored walls had tasteful, even expensive paintings on them.  The main living area was in front of him and continued to the right, ending in a quaint corner fireplace and sliding doors to a balcony.   He had stepped into the doorway with his back facing the gun-wielding Ms. Bowen, his gun in his outstretched right hand.  He slowly holstered his weapon and calmly turned around to face her, which is where he found himself now.  With his left hand he eased the door open  until it banged lightly against a wall to his immediate left.  The wall went halfway into the living area then cornered away from sight, presumably into a hallway. Sitting at the base of this corner, his back to Officer Pike, was David, the 1^st victim in the incident.  Miguel had hoped the woman would have lowered her weapon when she saw his back in the doorway.  No such luck.  He was faced with the shaking black circle of a gun barrel at a distance of about 15 feet.  Miguel recognized it as a 22mm. revolver.  No wonder the wound to David’s arm was minor.

“Ms. Bowen, may I talk to you please?”

“I told you not to come in!”

Calmly, almost soothingly, Miguel answered.  “Ms. Bowen, Please. Put down the gun.  No one needs to get hurt.  What ever the problem is, we can work it out.”

From her position behind a dark blue couch, Jennifer Bowen began to soften, it seemed.  She bit her quivering bottom lip. Then she raised the gun in a burst of determination.  “How can you help?” She cried in defiance. 

“Ma’am... everything can be worked out.  Nothing is worth killing someone over.  Anything that is done can be corrected, but if you kill someone, that can’t be fixed.  Right now you are facing at the most an assault charge, you don’t want to add murder to it.”  Miguel knew he was blowing smoke, she was probably going to face attempted murder, but mentioning that wouldn’t help the situation.  He needed to get David and the boy out of there.  The look in Jennifer Bowen’s face indicated she was confused, trying to sort this disaster out.  She needed time to think, time Miguel was willing to give her.  While her eyes darted around in frantic thought, Miguel heard 3 or 4 more cruisers pull into the complex.  Their sirens shutting down as they entered the parking lot.  Their radios broadcasting the police frequency, echoing off the apartment buildings in a twisted mimicry of stereo.

“Get the boy!’ She blurted out, never lowering her weapon.  David, covering his gunshot wound with his right hand, started to stand, but cowered down again when the 22 quickly shifted to aim at him.  “Not you... Him!”  She glared at Miguel; the gun still trained on her boyfriend. David immediately sat down again moaning slightly at the steady burning of his arm.

Softly, Officer Pike said “All right.” Without taking his eyes off the trembling woman, Miguel called over his shoulder through the open doorway. “Charlie?  I’m going into the back to get the boy.”

“Should I cover you?” Charlie asked. Each word echoed cold off of the wooden stairwell.  Words from an unseen speaker somewhere beyond the doorway.

“NO” shouted Jennifer to the officer she couldn’t see. “No more cops!”

Without another word, Officer Pike eased around David and the corner into the darkened hall. He took a glance while stepping slowly around David to try a precursory assessment of the young man.  White, 27 or so, thin build, well kept chocolate brown hair.  The wound to his left upper arm seemed to be the only injury.  Not interrupting his stride, he entered the hallway and flipped a switch that bathed the hallway in a soft light.  Miguel stopped.  Without turning he asked the couple in the living room.  “What’s the boy’s name?

“Chris” They replied in unison.

 Walking towards the only closed door in the apartment Miguel dreaded having his back to an unpredictable and armed woman.  He had some faith in the armored vest underneath his jacket, but that wasn’t foolproof by any stretch of the imagination.  He knew, however, this was probably the only way he could get the boy out of the powder keg.  A part of him wanted to bolt to the bedroom door, grab the boy, and run out of the apartment at lightspeed, but his experience told him any fast moves could set the unbalanced Ms. Bowen off.  So, he took slow, deliberate steps towards the sound of the boy crying, begging, and pounding on the door.  It seemed to take forever to cover the 13 paces down the hall, but now Miguel’s hand was on the door handle.  He bent down to pick up a clean white sock before unlocking it.  He turned the knob and crouched down into a squatting position.  As the door opened the boy began to dash to the living room, but stopped as he found himself against the chest of the Police Officer.

“Chris?” Officer Pike said softly.  Placing his hands on young Christopher’s shoulders, Miguel tried to catch his eye contact.  “Your daddy and Jennifer are having a discussion.  Jennifer is very upset, and I need to take you outside until we can calm them down.”

“I wanna’ see my daddy!”  The boy’s blue eyes were tear soaked and reddened.  His blonde hair disheveled and his Anakin Skywalker T-shirt slightly dirty with dust from some unknown playground.

“Okay, you can see your daddy on the way out, but we need to go outside. Okay?”  This was where Officer Pike was at his best.  Everyone in the department knew Miguel had a way with children, though no one could put a finger on exactly why.  Maybe it was because he always crouched down to talk with them.  Maybe it was the soft voice he used.  Maybe it was in the way he talked to them at their level without sounding condescending or belittling.  Whatever it was, it worked.

   With a look of almost pure gratitude and innocence, the 5-year-old boy finally looked into Officer Pike’s eyes.  “Okay officer.”   Miguel took Chris’ hand in his own and together they walked down the hall to the living room.  When the boy saw his father, however, sitting against the corner of the wall and hurt, he bolted directly for him, slipping from Miguel’s grasp.

“Daddy!  What happened?”

“Don’t worry kiddo. I’m okay.”

“I’ll get you a band-aid.”

“No, I’m okay.”

“I know where they are, I’ll get you one.”  The boy started to turn to run back down the hall.

“Christopher!” David said sternly.  “I said ‘No.’  you go with the officer and I will be out in a minute.”  The boy understood that his Daddy was serious, but was completely baffled by why he didn’t want a band-aid.  He saw the stern look in his father’s eyes and quieted himself in silent acceptance.

Officer Pike crouched down again, and began wrapping the sock around David’s arm, hoping such a sign of first-aid wouldn’t anger the gun-wielding Ms. Bowen.  Now it was David’s turn to look in Miguel’s eyes with sincere thanks and gratitude.  As Miguel was tying the sock into a knot, he told the boy “Give your Daddy a hug and a kiss.  We hafta’ go outside.”

“I wanna stay here with Daddy.”

“You can’t “ The father said.  “You have to wait for me outside.”

“But Daddy...”

“Christopher!  I mean it!”

Officer Pike’s hand on the young boy’s back pressed him gently towards his Daddy.  The boy sprang to, and then clung to his Daddy.  Miguel could see the slight grimace on David’s face as his boy’s hug pressed against the injured arm, but beyond that he could see the look of relief at the prospect that young Christopher would be okay.

........................................

            The Gold Mine casino in Laughlin was pretty typical of any other casino in town.  Not quite as glamorous or outrageous as those to the north in Las Vegas.  The gaming of choice was predominately slot machines.  The decor was old west.  Brand new wood paneling painted to look weathered and worn.  Naked wooden cross beams framing mirrored ceiling tiles.  The few tables that the casino did have were in a single line splitting the casino floor in half.  These were flanked by banks and banks of slot machines.  Some were the standard apple-orange-bar variety.  Others offered complex games with countless possible outcomes, baring little resemblance to their traditional one-armed-bandit cousins.  The clientele was an eclectic mix of Native American descendants, Caucasian businessmen on weekend junkets, newlywed couples, and college kids out in search of a good time.  Some looked excited and were having fun, while others stared at the machines in a jackpot-chasing trance, looking for that combination of symbols that would make them a winner.  Across the room, centered on one of the longer walls that framed the rectangular casino, a small stage held 5 individuals, four men and a woman.  Together these five formed a talented and energetic showband, The Mavericks. As if competing with the clangs of the slots, their lead singer Ralph wailed out the words to an old song by Culture Club.

Desolate loving in your eyes

            You used an' made my life so sweet

            Step out like a god found child

I saw your eyes across the street

            Who would be the fool to take you

Be more than just kind

            Step into a life of maybe

Love is hard to find

In the church of the poison mind

In the church of the poison mind

            In the church of the poison mind

            In the church of the poison mind

Watch me clinging to the beat

            I had to fight to make it mine

That religion you could sink in neat

Just move your feet an' you'll feel fine

Who would be the fool to maybe

Trick a kiss in time

            Who am I to say that's crazy

            Love will make you blind

In the church of the poison mind

            In the church of the poison mind

            In the church of the poison mind

The attractive young lady in the group stepped forward into the spotlight.  Tall, fair skinned with blonde hair to her mid-back, and soft brown eyes Gabriella was definitely a “looker” by any guy’s standards.  Around her neck hung a strap for her tenor saxophone.  En route to center stage, she had hooked the sax to the strap and without missing a beat, blended its voice with that of the band. She flawlessly matched what had originally been written as a harmonica solo.  The peals soared over the crowd, overpowering, yet somehow blending with the ambient sounds of the gambling.  Some patrons, who had been impressed with her voice as she accompanied Ralph with harmonies and echoed refrains, were now equally amazed at how well she coaxed the subtle notes from her instrument.  Even while blowing away notes on the sax, her face held a unique softness that paradoxily showed strength and confidence.  As she let the music flow, she appeared to be somewhere else, in a world of perfect unison with the rhythm and the notes. Her saxophone seemed an extension of her own inner voice, singing as purely as any angel.   And throughout the entire solo, she never showed any sign of ego or bravado.  There was no showcasing from this woman.  She wasn’t there to strut herself or laud her abilities.  She was there to create music that perhaps, just maybe, would touch a soul or two.  With a wink from Ralph, she let the sax swing to her side and together they finished the last few verses in flawless harmony.

........................................

            When Stephanie’s Audi reached the parking lot, it was already packed with a dozen squad cars and a couple of ambulances. A quick glance around confirmed what she was hoping for, however.  No antennas, no small sat dishes, no bright leco lights, and only one van – the one belonging to her employer KCKB television.  Yes! They were the first on the scene!  Getting a scoop was always good on the ‘ol resume, she thought with a grin. She quickly hopped from the car and made a beeline for the Van.  The overnight news crew was already unloading wires, electronic equipment, and lights.   With a rushed bark of orders, Stephanie was firmly in control.

 “Okay, Alex, set up over there, by that grove of trees.  The top balcony next to the stairwell is our backdrop.  Cindy! Find the officer in charge and see what you can get out of him.  Alex, see if a zoom can get anything where the curtains are open.  Tripp, could you hand me my brush in the front seat?”  In a flash the entire crew was in motion.  Better than any S.W.A.T. team or Ranger detail could hope for.  Everyone knew their part of the mission, and set out immediately to make it happen.  The goal, be the first station with live on-the-scene coverage. Another glance around told Stephanie the goal might actually be accomplished. After getting her brush, the 21-year old overnight reporter strode to the grove of trees where Alex was already setting up the video camera and boom microphone. Without a mirror, she instinctively brushed her strawberry blonde hair back, letting it fall almost to her shoulders in a classic pageboy.  The bright light above the camera came on, lighting the entire north end of the parking lot. Alex announced to Stephanie that the studio would be cutting to her immediately out of the current commercial ...in 10 seconds.  Stephanie pulled a small mirror from her blazer for a quick check.  Eyeliner?  Okay.  Blush? Okay. Teeth?  Good enough. Hair? Perfect.  She faced the camera and lifted her microphone.

“Good Evening, this is Stephanie Cole of Newscentral KCKB on the scene at Rainbow Apartments in Lakewood, where there has been a report of a shooting.  Details are sketchy at the moment, but Police are requesting that area residents stay in doors until the situation is resolved.  We will return with follow up reports as the situation develops.  Reporting live for Newscentral KCKB, this is Stephanie Cole.”

Alex’s hand, which he had been holding directly above the camera lens, paused then formed a tight fist.  “We’re out.” He called.  The light dimmed and shut off.

Whew!  With a look at her watch, Stephanie made a point of noticing the time.  10:53.  First on the scene, she reminded herself.  The station manager might finally notice her work.

........................................

            Inside, the situation was still tense.  For Officer Miguel Pike, the only hint of relief came from the fact that in a couple of minutes this little boy would be out of harm’s way.  The boy, Christopher, clung to his daddy, not wanting to leave him in a room with so much tension.  He had seen, and heard the arguments before.  As young as he was, he didn’t know the causes, nor did he care.  All he knew was Daddy and Jennifer were fighting again.  But this time, it was different.  The room smelled like fireworks on the 4^th of July, and Daddy was bleeding.  The Officer who seemed so tall and strong needed to take him outside.  Would he be allowed back in?  Was Daddy coming later?  Why couldn’t Daddy take him outside?  Why did he have to leave?  He could talk to Jennifer.  He could calm her down, he always could before. He didn’t want to leave!

            Officer Pike placed his hand on Christopher’s shoulder and gently pulled him back.  Chris responded by wrapping his arms more tightly around his Daddy’s neck.  After several stern, but loving words from his father, Christopher surrendered to the situation.  He gave his Dad a long, tear-filled kiss goodbye on the cheek and took Officer Pike’s hand.  David told Chris “I love you”, and little Christopher and Miguel walked hand-in-hand towards the door.

........................................

            At the same hour in the west wing of the Capitol building, Speaker of the House Phil Shepard was briefing his personal security officer of an upcoming trip to the Near East.  “The Vice President is making a good-will trip to Israel and has invited us to come along.  Have you ever been there?”

“No sir.”

“Well, neither have I, so it’ll be a new experience for both of us.”  He said with a grin.  “Naturally, the vice President and I… we’ll be traveling in separate planes, and all.  So you get that all set up with George.”  George was Ray’s superior.  Technically, George was in charge of arranging transportation, enhanced security, lodging, on-sight security sweeps, and scheduling coverage.  Anything that had to be arranged, George arranged it.  Or at least his title of “Chief Agent” implied that.  The fact was, however, that for the last year, George and Ray had worked hand in hand on every detail of the Speaker’s security needs.  At first there was somewhat of a power struggle between the two, but over the last year they found countless benefits to working as a duo. 

Ray could have felt entitled to a pay raise, or at least a title-promotion to “Executive Assistant Chief,” but that would probably require him to be moved from personal detail, and that was the last thing Ray desired.  He enjoyed being in the field, meeting people, and working one-on-one.  Furthermore, Ray didn’t lust after the higher paycheck like many Agents in the Service.  He was single, with a modest apartment.  No pets.  No one to spend any money on but himself.  Most of his free days were spent with a nose placed happily in a book.  Usually biographies, histories, or “who-dunnit’s.”  His savings account was quite decent and he had learned to master some very profitable online trading.  He had his share of friends, or at least enough to his liking.  Most of them were screen names on his computer monitor.  Chat rooms, bulletin boards, social debate MUDDS, that’s where his friends lived.  In short, at 33 years old, he was alone, successful, and at peace.  He liked his life.  Now he was going to Israel.  Not bad for a boy who grew up in the lower side of Baltimore.

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            Stephanie was determined to become the Police Chief’s new best friend, or so it seemed.  Her microphone was so close to his face, he could have bitten it.  “I can’t make a statement about anything right now, Ms. Cole.  There does seem to be a hostage situation, but that is unconfirmed.”

“But Chief, could you at least tell us if –“ Her voice was suddenly silenced by the sound of a gunblast from the upper floor.  In any other situation, it might have been mistaken for the backfire of some out-of-tune car.  But here, now... there was no mistaking the sound, the placement, and the significance.  Someone in the apartment had fired a round out of a gun.  It was followed by a deafening silence.  Then another, two, three shots.  Someone yelling “No!” Silence.  Suddenly, from up in the apartment came the scream for help.  “We need a medic!  Get the medics up here NOW!”  In an instant, the apartment went from eerie silence to a cacophony of yells, laments, and screams. “No!” an unidentifiable voice cried. “God Nooooo!”  “Hurry up! We need those medics.”  “Out of the way!  Let the guys through.”  A dozen voices crying out from the wooden stairwell.  Stephanie whispered to her cameraman “Are you getting this?”  He nodded in response. The Paramedics had made their way to the stairs as soon as they heard the first shot.  Now, less than 45 seconds later, the situation was apparently resolved...one way or another. 

Immediately a State Trooper came over to Stephanie to assure she wouldn’t venture towards the stairs.  Not that she really intended to, in an instant she had gone from reporter to 21-year-old citizen.  In the moment that the gunshot cracked through the biting autumn air, she had lost thought of the fact that she was a journalist.  She felt like a voyeur.  She felt human. She wasn’t thinking as a reporter, she was thinking of the people up in the apartment, and all the frightening possibilities were racing through her head.  No longer was she a reporter.  She was a woman with a young brother.  She was the Aunt of a little 4-year-old; she was a human being.  She was genuinely concerned.

“Coming to us in 5...4...3...”

Collecting herself, Stephanie faced the camera and began to slip into her reporter persona.  It wasn’t a cold persona, as such, but it would have to be tonight, if she wanted to get through this.

            “This is Stephanie Cole live at the Rainbow Apartments where more shots have been heard coming from the upper floor of the apartment building...”

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            In the small apartment, the sound of the gunshot seemed to shatter Miguel’s eardrums, leaving only a persistent high-pitched ringing in his head.  The instant he heard it, he felt it… the loosening of the child’s hand in his, and the increased weight as the child began to drop involuntarily to the floor.  As he turned to his left, toward the fading boy, his gun was drawn and raising to center on the inhuman assailant behind him.  In a primal, instinctive voice that came from the depths of his gut, Miguel yelled “No!” and squeezed off the first bullet into the woman’s chest.  The second and third pulls of the trigger were more a matter of adrenaline, anger, and helpless frustration than anything else.  Miguel wouldn’t even recall those shots when Internal Affairs interviewed him later that morning.  The next thing Miguel was conscience of was his friend Charlie pinning him to the wall of the stairwell, in part to shake him out of his rage, and partially to give the medics room to treat the child.  The sight was the worst one yet for Miguel.  The bullet had entered the back of the child’s head and exited just to the side of his right eyebrow.  Miguel assumed the child was dead.  He had looked at the innocent face, and began to feel the world spinning around him.  How could a fraction of a second turn everything upside down?  Miguel’s head was light.  Then his gut tightened in a painful vise.  Everything rushed to his head.  Falling to his knees, he wretched at the doorstep of the adjoining apartment.  Through the ringing in his ears, he thought he heard a paramedic say, “We’ve got a pulse.”  He knew the woman would have no such luck.  The bullet he put into her hit with deadly accuracy, and he knew it.  On his knees, his world still tumbling about him, Officer Miguel Pike grasped for the pieces of his senses, his sanity, and his life and tried to pull them back together… and he began to pray.

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“Not a bad crowd for a Friday night” Ralph thought.  It was 10 o’clock, time to break down and pack up the band.  As he began the mind-numbing task of wrapping speaker cords, he couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to have a Saturday night off.  Maybe he would drive up to Vegas with Gabriella.  A quick glance over his shoulder and he saw she was already looking at him.  A smile spread slowly across her face.  She brushed her hair from her eyes, gave him a wink and continued packing her saxophone into its case.

Yes, Saturday night off!  There had to be some show he could take her to.  A nice dinner over at that place in Caesar’s.  What was it?  Cleopatra’s something-or-other.  Yeah, got to make reservations... don’t forget. Call first thing in the morning.  Rick, over at the Orleans, he could get me some good seats.  Need to get paid for tonight. Got to remember to do that.  Oh! And flowers.  That little place off the strip.  Wait, there’s that cute little Mom-and-Pop shop here in Laughlin.  Could get them before we checkout tomorrow.  If I do that, though, they could wilt.  Better do that before I pick up the tickets to the show, instead.  What show?  Hmmmmm.  Is Newton in town this week?  Maybe Manilow. Wasn’t he going to be over at the MGM?  There’s always Sigfried and Roy.  Gabriella loves those tigers.

Ralph continued to wrap cords.  Unplugging one from the guitar, he glanced up.  On the wall of the casino, across from what somebody tried to pass off to the management as a stage, Ralph caught his reflection in “The Mirror.”  His friends had warned him about performing before “The Mirror.”  In fact, the casino was notorious among the band circuit for that one, long, all-encompassing wall – “The Mirror.” Other bands had lost entire summer-length engagements when their inexperienced or narcissistic lead singers had been caught by The Mirror.  Gazing at an image of themselves could play the most vicious tricks on a singer’s mind.  Either from ego, or from self-criticism, one by one they would be caught by The Mirror.  Once held in its grasp, they forever gazed at it, losing their connection to the patrons.  Lost in The Mirror.  However, throughout their two-week engagement, Ralph had avoided looking at it, pretending it was not a mirror, but a second room beyond the immediate one.  It really hadn’t caused him that much concern, nor been much of a distraction.  But now, at 10pm, with the unflattering blanche of the work lights baking the stage, “The Mirror” caught him.  To his eyes, he looked old.  Only 29 years in age, but the unforgiving white lights seemed to illuminate every mile he had traveled.  Every dive-bar gig, every broken promise, every bounced check.  Every canceled show. His dark hair mussed from three hours of pacing and jumping on stage.  His cheeks hollowed a bit from... well... just from life.  The furrows running upwards from his mouth getting deeper with every year.  His frame was in decent shape, due to the workout he gave himself every night under the spotlights.  But it seemed the mirror was reflecting something other than his physical body.  It reflected the exhaustion inside. He felt like an old soul.

            A kiss on the nape of his neck sent shivers down his spine, and brought him out of his trance.  Gabriella, the attractive, slender, 25 year old musician giggled as she made Ralph jump with surprise.  “Careful, I’d almost bet you were lost in The Mirror. Sheesh!  You lead singers are all alike, aren’t you?”  Ralph knew his best response was probably a sheepish grin, which he readily gave.

“C’mon.” She continued. “The boys are loaded up and waiting to head back to the motel.”  With the startled look of a man awakening in a strange bed, Ralph glanced around the stage.  Damn!  Everything was already broken down, packed, and loaded out.

“Man!  That thing IS powerful!” Ralph half-joked.  Grabbing his microphone case, he and Gabriella turned to the stairs that led down and off the stage.