Herculanium (8 page)

Preston tapped the microphone head. “Is this thing on?” Broken applause and whistles echoed from the crowd. Flashbulbs ignited sporadically like curbside fireworks.

“I really don’t know what to say. You all weren’t invited to this party, at least not yet. The promoters and my people are meeting here tonight to discuss the details of what’s supposed to happen. As soon as I find out, you—all of you—will be the first to know.” He turned around and looked at Peryson.

“Are we supposed to have a press conference soon?” he whispered.

“Possibly within two weeks,” answered Peryson, ignoring Max’s sour face.

“I’ve just been told that you all should get more information in about two weeks. Until then, sit tight, and we’ll all go through this together. Thank you for coming out. Peace.”

A sea of flailing arms instantly erupted from the masses, followed by a visual crescendo of more flash pulses.

Peryson grimaced as the sea of people seemed to overwhelm the surrounding area. Max Lee was right; if they’re not careful, this could turn into a localized riot.

“Call the City Police,” he told a nearby assistant, cupping his hand over his mouth to hide the command. “Advise them that we need this area cleared as soon as possible, and that an unauthorized helicopter has violated this area’s airspace. Please request that they exercise discretion.”

The assistant immediately ran into a room and disappeared.

“It’s about fucking time,” Max grumbled out loud. He knew exactly what Peryson did, and he made sure Peryson noticed his insight.

Allan Henderson crammed his way through the crowd until he was standing dead center of the staircase balcony. Too many people could identify him if he raised his gun to fire, he thought, so his best bet was to get as close to Preston as possible, maybe even where the reporters were standing.

He felt his gun inside his jacket pocket and hung his head low, slowly comprehending what heinous acts he had committed this night. His head had stopped throbbing, and the alcohol-induced haze had thinned to a glossy fog. What if he was wrong in pursuing this man he had never met? He used to be a man who watched the news about murders, not one who was soon to be in it having committed one. He stared at this tall man at a podium high above him, being adored by fans for no more than being an athlete riding a plane to open a hotel. That honor belonged to a common man who worked hard all his life, but will never earn a million dollars in a dozen lifetimes. That honor belonged to those would forward humanity into the new future full of hope—and science.

Allan Henderson smiled and moved forward.

The scattershot questions came in-between screams and claps, like applause of muffled gibberish. Preston had to listen carefully through the wall of noise; he could normally make out questions from a buzzing room of rowdy reporters, but this scene was entirely different.

“Preston,” screamed one reporter, “how do you think this will affect your basketball career? Are you taking time off next season?”

“I’m not sure, yet. We still have a lot of details to hammer out. At this point, anything is possible.”

Max rolled his eyes.

“What have your teammates said about your selection? Have you spoken to your coach about this?” This reporter was near the front of the security line, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“The question was, ‘have I spoken to my coach and teammates about this?’ The answer is ‘No.’ Everything happened so fast that there was really no time. We got the word, and we headed straight over here.”

“Why was there such a conscious effort to hide the location of this meeting?” asked Micky, her hands cupped around her mouth to amplify her voice. “Why were false locations given to the media and the public?”

Preston paused before answering. “I’m not aware of any effort to hide the location of this meeting. But judging from this turnout, I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s necessary sometimes.”

Max consciously blocked out the crowd noise and looked to the dark horizon. It was very faint, but he could hear the shrill of sirens coming nearer. He looked over to an agitated Peryson.

“I said discretion,” said Peryson, shaking his head. “Discretion, discretion, discretion.”

“Preston, we have to go,” interrupted Max, placing his hand over the microphone. “We have to wrap this up now.”

“A few more questions, Max. I don’t think these guys will go away.”

Preston was actually getting a rush in making the reporters beg for more answers. It was his turn to make them feel awkward and unbalanced.

Allan Henderson raised his hands too, but was continuously drowned out by the excited crowd. He yelled as loud as he could, even jumping up and down in place, but to no avail. There was only one way to get his attention.

“You getting all of this, Clay?” said Micky with excitement.

“Damn straight, chief. I just wish he’d do something. He’s just standing there.”

Max slapped Preston’s back. “Hurry your ass up now. The police are coming to break up this party.” He directed Preston’s attention to a small cluster of red pulsating lights just beyond the dark trees.

Peryson casually walked to the left of the balcony. He smiled as he saw the strange helicopter quickly veer away and disappear from above the property, chased away by a police chopper that had just arrived ahead of the screaming car sirens.

“We have time for one more question,” said Preston, intentionally keeping the crowd in place until the police came, curious to see what would happen. He coolly raised his left wrist and checked the time on his expensive watch, pretending to whistle in impatience as several dozen hands erected themselves before him.

Allan Henderson needed a distraction.

“Will you please top fucking with these people and come with me already?” reiterated Max, this time placing his hand on his Preston’s chest.

Allan turned to his left and saw this huge black man with a video camera covering the story. Next to him was a tall, dark-haired woman mumbling into a long stick. He smiled and pulled the brim of his hat down, walking towards them briskly through the milling crowd inconspicuously. Police sirens were blaring all around him.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re going to have to confiscate this camera. It didn’t go through our metal detectors.”

“Say what?” Clay kept his eyes glued to his camera’s viewer without turning his head.

“We’re going to need to inspect this camera, sir. Strictly routine.”

“You’re shittin’ me. If you haven’t noticed, I’m in the middle of a fucking story.” Clay finally turned his head from the camera and stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not the only guy here with a camera, jack. I have permission to be here. Go harass somebody else.”

The police sirens continued to wail like a chorus of banshees.

“Gimme a break, brother,” said Allan in mock innocence. “I’m just following orders from my boss, alright?”

Clay slowly turned his gaze back to his camera and buried his face into its lens viewer. In this business, ignoring assholes was second-nature.

Allan shook his head and smiled. He stood on the balls of his feet and stretched his right arm upward. Placing his hand on top of the camera’s protruding lens, he grunted out loud as he pushed it straight down. The camera slipped through Clay’s hands, crunching to the ground in a gut-wrenching thud.

“What the fuck you doing, man?” screamed Clay, stunned that someone had dared destroy his precious equipment. “That was my fucking camera, you pencil-neck geek.”

Clay quickly grabbed Henderson by his jacket collar and pulled him closer. “I’m going to kick your lily-white ass. Hey, Mick!”

He tried to get Micky’s attention, yelling above the murmurs of the crowd. He was about to tap her on her shoulder when Henderson unexpectedly struggled to break away from his grip. Henderson cocked his arm back and, making the tightest fist of his life, swung his arm forward. He struck Clay flush in the jaw, sending him reeling into the crowd.

“Fight! Fight!” yelled nearby fans, momentarily diverting the attention from Preston. Everyone’s head turned in unison as Clay got up, more embarrassed than anything else at being floored by such a wiry-looking man. The on-lookers became a wall around the two men, egging both men on to fight. Nearby security guards had their lips buried into their walkie-talkies, silently assessing their situation and getting orders.

Micky turned her head and could not believe what she was seeing. Not only was her cameraman in a fight, but his camera was nowhere to be seen. That meant the story was not being covered.

So much for her stellar evening.

“Not now, please not now,” she prayed under her breath.

“Hey, asshole, you bumped into me,” said a husky on-looker with a grunt.

“Fuck you, man,” said Clay in return, pointing behind him to Henderson. “He pushed me into you, and he fucking broke my camera.”

“I don’t give a fuck what he did; you bumped into me!”

“So what? You wanna make something out of it?” Clay stretched his hands out in a crucifix position and pumped his chest forward. “So what’s up? What you gonna do?”

Henderson slowly backed away and disappeared behind the crowd.

Security guards streamed from their barricade line and rushed towards both men. They had to contain this incident before the police did, or their reputation as a top security agency would be severely compromised.

“Don’t look now, Max, but there’s a fight over there on the right,” said Preston with a smile. “
Now
it’s time to go.” Max looked at Peryson and shook his head in disgust.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Preston continued, placing his lips close to the microphone to make his voice as low as he could, “Elvis has left the building.”

A squad of police cars arrived just behind the crowd, rolling up and parking on the wet lawn. The crowd’s attention was divided, swaying from Preston Jones above, the fight on the ground, and the police behind them.

Allan Henderson smiled with glee. Returning to his original spot right in front of the balcony, he stood directly in line with Preston’s podium. The crowd began to move like ocean waves around him, drifting and swirling in all directions. No one exactly knew what the police were going to do, and no one wanted to be left behind to find out. Nearly all of Preston’s entourage had turned around and gone inside the hall, yet Preston and another man stood arguing outside. He seemed to enjoy watching the chaos.

In all this confusion, Allan thought, no one could possibly hear a single gunshot.

A blinding spotlight scanned the crowd from above, moving back and forth in erratic patterns. The hum of the helicopter blades sounded like a monstrous heartbeat descending to disband the crowd. The flush of powerful rotor winds swept over the onlookers, sending paper and hats spinning into the cool night air.

Micky dropped her microphone hand and rubbed her forehead with the other. She wasn’t too worried for Clay; she knew he could take care of himself, as always. She just had to wait until Clay emerged victorious, and then shriek about his baby camera. Her career was doomed to return to where it started, out in the field.

Allan reached into his jacket and pulled out his revolver, keeping his hand low and out of sight. Preston and Max remained standing around the podium, seemingly mesmerized by the chaos. Checking left and right to make sure it was clear, Allan unfurled his hand in front of him and took aim. He only needed one bullet to get his kill-shot, two at most.

Unfortunately, he was never a good marksman to begin with.

“Preston, get inside. Now,” ordered Max. “It’s out of control out here.”

“So what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

“You go ahead. I have to make sure that no one gets hurt out here. Imagine the lawsuits.” Preston could sense a tinge of guilt in Max’s voice.

“Let the cops take care of this. This is none of our business now.” This time, Preston placed his hand on Max’s shoulder. “I’m not going inside without you.”

Allan stiffened his arm as he aligned his gun sight with Preston’s face. He wrapped his index finger around the trigger like a python slowly constricting a hapless rat.

Micky casually glanced behind her to see where the crowd was streaming to, subconsciously blinking to adjust her vision. She saw a guard with his gun drawn, pointing upwards to fire. She could swear this maniac was laughing.

She shouted a whisper in the middle of this rock concert.

“LOOK OUT.”

Max turned his head, somehow hearing those dreaded words, like a pan dropping in a bustling kitchen. He saw a faint spark below him, and then felt something buzz past his head. He heard a light bulb shatter to pieces behind him.

He grabbed his best friend by the collar and pushed him to the ground.

Micky threw her arms in front of her and tried to block his aim, but was too late. She grabbed Allan by his trunk and tackled him, simultaneously shoving him down and entangling her legs with his. They both fell and were nearly trampled by the spreading crowd. With unusual agility, he kicked and wriggled his way out of her grip and quickly stood up. Preston was no longer standing next to the podium. Allan screamed and ran towards the balcony like a hunter bounding to his wounded prey, his gun hand pointing straight up. The kill-shot was still possible, he thought. The reporters and onlookers quickly gave him a wide berth, opening a path directly to the staircase.

Micky stood up and motioned to the policemen behind her.

Clay buried his fist into his opponent’s teeth like a jackhammer, punctuating the rightness of opinion.

Peryson ran back out to the balcony, staring in disbelief at seeing Max and Preston huddled on the floor behind the podium.

Lilian and Darienne stood just outside the police perimeter, unable to express their fear in words.

Allan Henderson ran up the steps as if he was carrying the Olympic torch to victory, his gun hand raised high in triumph. He stretched his strides wide, skipping steps as he ascended to the balcony. As he neared the top, he felt what seemed like wet bean bags pummeling his body from behind, stinging through his jacket like the powerful lawn sprinklers he ran through earlier. He felt weaker with each step, and decided to pause to look at this warm, gushing fluid flowing through his clothes. He ran his fingers cautiously through his new apron of blood, and felt several strategically placed bullet holes cratering his trunk and legs. A deafening woman’s scream resonated around him, forcing him to cup his ears in pain. He glanced at the top of the balcony, then quickly wheeled around behind him. A row of policemen below stood ready, their guns drawn and aimed for their own kill-shot. Allan Henderson was now their target.