Chapter Two – Flak Bash

Flashback

"... braaave, braaaaave! Oh yeah, the home, home of the brave! Wooo!" Haze jumped through a 720 degree twirl and landed to grin at her audience. She walked off the stage waving and smiling at her clapping and cheering public. Her husband, Craig Yarworth, followed closely behind in his well-pressed suit. They made their way into the cooler air outside the back of the Coos Bay City Hall.

"Beautiful singing as always, my dear," Craig remarked with a plastic smile.

"Well that's what the people love me for," the singer replied.

"Yes, such a powerful voice. That's the reason I chose you: people will accept anything spoken so beautifully, without really thinking. As I always say, the less people truly understand about a political speech, the better." He ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair. "You did an excellent job of sounding like you knew what you were saying," he added derisively.

"Hmph. It's not as if I don't know what the individual words mean. I'm not stupid."

"Of course not, my dear," he responded with the usual sinister glint in his eyes.

Haze looked around, realizing something was wrong. "For instance, where's the limo?"

A jolt of fear shook Mr Yarworth. "Never mind the limo, where's the flock of Secret Service agents who should be guarding us?" Puzzled, surprised, and wanting answers, the man reached for his organiser to make an urgent call. He succeeded in removing it from his pocket before the top right corner disintegrated, along with his pointer finger. He stared at the damage, and then at the sniper barely visible on a distant roof. The clap of a silenced gunshot drifted past, but didn't register in his shocked brain. "No… It's all over…" he muttered. Haze looked on in a shocked trance. A second shot sent her husband to the ground with a huge hole in his head. She watched as he fell, in seeming slow motion. She felt no loss, just surprise, and even some sense of satisfaction.

"Ooof!" She found herself thrown against the painted steel wall of the building behind. Something had kicked her in the chest. Hard. Something like a horse. Or a bullet. Well the sniper wasn't launching horses, so it had to be a bullet. Although it meant that her clothes had to completely cover her abdomen, there was something to be said for wearing a flak jacket to events. Haze's first thought was that her blouse was ruined. Her second was that the damage wouldn't matter if she was dead. Her third thought was that if she stuck around, she'd be dead quite soon.

She ran. Or she attempted to run. Running with the wind knocked out of you is never easy, and having a bullet stopped close to your chest doesn't help matters. A fourth thought passed through her mind: with the technology of a few years ago, she'd likely already be dead. She searched for cover as she hobbled along and spied a door. Thinking quickly, she ran past while yanking the handle down. Then she unexpectedly changed direction to leap inside. She'd seen it in a movie once, and figured it should reduce the chance of being shot in the doorway. Not that there had been any further shots, or any activity for that matter.

Deeming it about time to catch her breath, she parked herself in an uncomfortable heap in the middle of the concrete floor. Fortunately there were no since of animal life. Well, this was unexpected. I figure I'd better call my bodyguards to tell them where I am. No, I've had enough of guards. They can join Craig for all I care. Deciding she'd rather deal with the police, she groped for her phone. Unexpectedly, she retrieved two devices from her pocket. Must've picked up his organiser when I ran. I don't remember that. Yuck, it's got blood on it. Better ignore that for now.

She opened the flip-phone and poised her fingers over the 9 and 1 keys. But then a wave of distrust swept through her mind. No, there had to be someone else she could call, someone she could trust to truly save her from the mess her life had become.

The obvious answer popped into her mind, and she began to dial. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Call connecting…

Author's Note:
No prizes for guessing who that phone number calls.
And yes, italics does mean thoughts. Also, this is a work of fiction, so any resemblance between entities described or mentioned, and what they are actually like in reality, are purely coincidental, as they say. Oh and in case you wondered, I don't actually own Thunderbirds. Not that I actually mentioned them until just now.