BETWEEN THE CRACKS

CHAPTER 17 Inconsolable the man shuffled down the gangplank and out of their lives. Around him the bustle of passerby’s seemed almost ghostlike as he made his way off the dock and onto the frontage road. Some turned to gawk. Some whispered to their companions. Some pointed and smirked. Some had arrogant expressions rise up in their features. But he didn’t care. He stood out apart from all those here. He was different. His appearance, dress, and mannerisms were not like theirs and, given this, he would remain just as cold to them as they were to him. He was a solitary man, alone in a sea of vague semblances and arrogant self-centeredness. In the past, on his dozen (or so) visits to SoCal, the culture and people had felt superficial to him. So many of these people were an affront to his rigorous self-disciplines; cheeky superficial characters caught up in scatterbrained pursuits. It seemed now that everything was a distraction to the peace he sought. His heart ached for his home in Morocco. He yearned to eat his savory fare, to hear his traditional music, to embrace his children’s laughter, and to delight in his beloved wife. Despondently he trudged on towards Lindbergh Field. It was taking every ounce of energy to stay focused on what must be done. Nothing could interfere with his efforts. Being reunited with his family was foremost in his heart and mind now. Behind him was an old life, ahead of him was … CHAPTER 22 Aside from the few cars parked Vesturgata Street was abandoned and quiet. We’d been in position for thirty minutes now. It was five minutes to ten and nothing had happened (as yet) of any consequence. A fog bank was moving in. It was unexpected and unsettling. Considering that clear visibility, and line of sight, was imperative, the possibilities of billowing fog curbing our effectiveness filled me with a strange trepidation. Within minutes all the buildings had been encased in a vaporous shroud. Visibility was lessened 70%. Along the road the once brilliant coruscation of streetlights were now only glowing diaphanous halos. There was something angelic about the way the light hovered seemingly disembodied above the ground. Outside the harbor, beyond the man-made peninsula, an incoming freighters foghorn had begun to drone in five second bursts. It was eerie and sounded like the distant bellowing of bull elephants. Not since we’d taken up our positions had any lights been observed inside the Red House. Nor had there been any movement in or out. This area of the city was as quiet as a tomb. Suddenly, from the roof across the street, Helga radioed in. “My line of sight is good,” She affirmed. “I’m ready.” “Roger that,” John whispered back. “Anders, Garrett, where are you?” “Across the way, John,” Anders answered. “We’re spaced about twenty-five feet apart along the wall cattycorner the gray mini-van.” “Roger that; I see it. Gabriel, how about you?” “I’m in the alleyway under Helga’s position… John, a white van just came around the corner up near the fishery. It’s moving towards us.” “Check what just turned up from the boulevard,” Garrett pointed. “Wow!” Anders blurted. “Somebody’s rollin’ large. It’s a Rolls-Royce Phantom 2 Drop-head Coupe. That’s over a half million dollar vehicle. I’ve only seen one before; it was a few months ago; same silver and blue colors too.” “Drop-head?” Garrett snorted. “Another way of saying a convertible.” I answered back. “The same colors Anders?” John inquired with a curious tone. “Yeah. Exactly.” Anders affirmed. “Could be the same one.” As we watched both vehicles came to a silent stop; they were staggered on opposite sides of the street. For several moments nothing happened. Then, the side door of the van rolled open noisily and five burly men tumbled out and dispersed along the street on both sides; all were armed with automatic weapons. “That’s just great,” Garrett groaned. “These are pea-shooters compared to those.” “AR-47’s.” John whispered. “A wicked weapon.” Anders added.