Rolling his eyes, he crossed his legs and reached for his cell phone. Flipping it open, he texted to his CO. What next?
BZ on bomb! BZ was Bravo Zulu, which meant Good Job.
Devin nodded humbly. He was always grateful it went well.
The next text said: Wrap it!
A vision of the new CO sitting next to Blicksen ran through his mind. Why the government would let an untried lead take the helm was beyond them. Not to mention, it was downright dangerous. Was the agency personnel stretched that thin?
Another text: Nox is on his way up. Bellows and crew will scoop. Gab, grab, and go! Beers on Bends at Brinkley.
Roger Wilco! typed Devin. He'd have to file a ton of paperwork on the job. He took a couple of extra pictures with his phone and sent them to some registered accounts to assist with his backup later.
When the crew arrived, he slapped skin and took a ton of lip about getting off easy. Banter was always good after a job well done, and he let it roll off of him as he prepared to face Blicksen.
The trip down to the lobby was quiet. “Dashing through the snow” played over the speaker, while CNN rolled the tape showing the outside of the hotel. The visuals showed children being trampled by adults and men pushing past women. Two elderly women lay near the front door, crying. Their outstretched hands slapped away as people ran past.
His own buddies ran up and picked up the women, getting them to relief crews and ambulances. The men had been positioned on the periphery, watching for suspicious individuals and handling issues that came up. Blicksen was still yelling at everyone. It was obvious he didn't know what he was doing.
People were being brought by on stretchers. Their injuries were evident of trample marks and a few bullet holes. This guy was hurting more lives than he was helping. He'd created havoc where ordered calm would have served. It was a skill… being functional and effective in a crisis. Who was going to make sure this type of mess didn't happen again?
Devin's feet moved him through the lobby. Facing Blicksen came faster than he thought. Maybe he should have prepared better, calmed, or made his peace. Because the next second Blicksen was in his face, yelling at him about Devin's inability to follow orders.
In the blink of an eye, Blicksen lay on the ground, looking up at Devin from the pavement. The IC's eyes were open, but no one was home.
A woman broke from the sidelines and ran to Blicksen. She knelt on the ground and put her arms on his chest. Obviously, Blicksen had brought a civilian to the scene. That was a major no-no. When the woman looked up at Walds a string of comments laced with anger were directed at him. What he wanted to say to her was what are you doing here? This is supposed to be a secure area. What he said was… “Sorry, lady.” Devin took a step back, and he was too. If this man were hers, she'd put up with more chaos than she probably wanted. “I'm sure he'll be fine… unfortunately.” The last word was mumbled, but he was away from the whole mess. All he wanted was to do his job and disengage.
Blicksen would have a souvenir for a few days, to remember Devin by. A broken nose for sure. But if Lady Luck were still with him, it'd be a broken upper jaw, too.
Stepping over the prone man, Devin walked away. Leaving the IC to his unconscious state.
His new CO would chuckle in private, but without a doubt militarily he'd give Devin an earful. There was little to no tolerance when it came to fighting in public. Then again… the sidewalk had been slippery and his fist might have saved Blicksen from a very bad fall.
Devin squared his shoulders. He would take his share of whatever needed to come. It had been worth it. Besides, Blicksen was lucky, and he'd gotten off light. If I'd really had my way, he wouldn't put anyone else in jeopardy ever again. Because what Devin really wanted to do was kill the man who'd caused so much unnecessary chaos and danger to those around him.
It was empty, a blank page. The white paper sat devoid of emotion, decision, input, or treatment. Instead, it waited to become, to hold something of importance. There was no predetermination or denouncement from it, only a willingness to be patient and to accept what she would place upon it.
This was a judgment free zone. That's what she liked to call it. There were no rules here. Even the absence of them didn't make it have to be something in particular. What this environment and experience was could be classified as a continual flow. Because here she acted on her most primal instincts and encouraged those who entered her realm to do creative work to act as they must, too.
The sensation of freedom was palpable. Like a tangible quality it flowed all around as if the air held a magic elixir upon which creation could continually burst with newness.
Kathryn Marie Pente looked at the wooden plaque near her easel. It was an 8 1/2” x 11” celebration sheet and on its shellacked top were quotes sealed for their protection. They read: “A painting by Kathryn Marie has substance, and will stand as a tribute to nature's upheavals and life's remarkable beauty,” Bing, The Village Voice. “Turning your senses on edge could make you doubt your own eyes, unless Pente has inked its direction. With magnificent strokes, she has outdone her contemporaries and created watercolor masterpieces,” The Times, Xander, Art Critic. “Sharing your soul is never easy, but Kathryn Marie Pente's art opens hearts and the door for everywhere,” Courier News, Doc Beston's art column. “To the best sister ever. I love you! May your art always make the world take notice and praise you beyond your need and expectations,” Love, Brenda.
Her sister had made this cherished keepsake, to remind Kathryn Marie that her dream of painting was worthwhile. Brenda had been the first to believe, and had stood strong by her side ever since. Even her parents had eventually come around, especially when they began to see the acclaim from the public.
Her cell phone vibrated with messages. At least fifty calls this morning, but none of them buzzed with Brenda's ringtone. Billy Joel's “Just The Way You Are” was her sister's favorite song and unless that rang through, Kathryn Marie wasn't answering.
People had even come to the door, but she didn't want to see anyone. It was part of her process and there were times that she tuned out the world. No one was allowed through-not a neighbor, a cop, or anyone else-except her sister.
She frowned. Where was Bren? Why hadn't she returned any of the phone calls from yesterday or the day before? Almost Christmas and it was so unlike her sister to be out of touch this long. They hadn't even made plans for the holidays yet. It was impossible to escape an ever-increasing feeling that something was wrong. Kathryn Marie wasn't psychic or given to precognition or premonition, but something was seriously wrong when her only blood didn't call back. She loved Brenda. A sister was forever.
Stroking a hand over the soft wood, she allowed herself the peacefulness that came from admiring the Chippendale desk upon which the plaque was set. This heirloom furniture piece, overloved with use, had come from her great-grandmother. It had several deep scratches-love notes from her great-grandfather-and had decades of protective polish.
Add in her three oriental rugs and a small porcelain statue, and these were the items that had a family vibe and remembrance to them. Everything else here, the paintings on the walls, the couch, table, chairs, and bed, had been her doing. Choices made years ago when she was in college. Now, living in San Diego, across the country from her only other family member on the face of this earth, she considered picking up and moving. What was here for her? No boyfriend, a few acquaintances… though, she enjoyed the gallery she worked with in La Jolla and she adored painting. The manager, LuJean, was always kind and welcoming, and he got a terrific price for her work.