Chapter 14: Of Penlights and Police
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The waitress from behind the bar slapped her dishrag on the counter. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded of Flint, noting his uniform and the way he had approached the wandering patron. She dismissed the newspaper article he'd previously held up for others to see, and failed to keep her confusion from coming through as anger.
With one serious glance, Flint assessed the barkeep. After a moment, he responded. "They call me Flint," he answered loudly so all could hear. "I'm a soldier. We all are," he said, glancing at his three friends. "Lifeline," he said quietly, issuing an order with a slight tilt of his head. The medic understood immediately, and rushed off to check the remaining customers. In much the same silent manner, he motioned for Roadblock and Scarlett to keep a lookout. Turning back to the barkeep, he asked about the emergency lighting. "Those plastic?"
The barkeep nodded, and Flint filed the information away in his sharp mind as potentially useful.
"Flint," Scarlett called out in a hushed tone, "We have a problem."
Flint cast his gaze over to the shattered windows, his eyes widening slightly as he caught the hint of flashlights roaming the now dark streets. "Back room, stat!" he hollered, loud enough for others to hear, but quiet enough so it wouldn't breach the shattered windows. Stuffing the newspaper article into his cargo pants pocket, he placed his hand at the crook of the barkeep's elbow. "C'mon," he said, not allowing for argument.
Slowly the remaining bar patrons shuffled into the backroom as Flint held the swinging doors open. When he was sure no one was left in the dining area, he closed the doors, stilling their motion from their habitual swinging. He glanced around what was left of the kitchen to find it mostly still in tact. "They'll be coming soon," he muttered to his teammates. "We can't risk a confrontation, not now. We have to hide."
"Flint," Scarlett began to question.
"No time, Red," he answered. "Listen up!" he shouted. "Find any place out of sight to hide! Chances are, they'll only glance in here." Scanning the room, he clenched his jaw as no one moved. "Now!" he yelled, to great effect. The civilians littered about the kitchen began shuffling around, looking for any place available to hide.
"I hope you're right about this," Lifeline muttered, picking a spot just beside the stovetop to crouch behind.
Flint cast his gaze through the plastic oval window of one of the kitchen doors. He noticed the flashlights getting closer, and he watched until they pointed in the direction of the bar. Turning away from the door, he glanced back into the kitchen. "No matter what happens," he hollered in a loud hush, "don't come out from your hiding spot. It may mean your life!"
Quickly, Flint lunged into the cooler, careful not to let it shut behind him. He kept the door open just a crack, so he could watch what the flashlight bearers would do. Silently, he watched as blue-clad soldiers peered into the kitchen, and held his breath as they scanned the room.
Someone sneezed. Flint tightened his eyes, and could only watch as one of the soldiers came barreling forward, grabbing the sneezing offender by his arm. It was the cook.
"Hold him," another soldier called. "Are there more?" he demanded of the cook, who was paralyzed with fear.
The cook's eyes darted wildly about, but he shook his head no.
The soldier glanced at his comrade holding the captive. "His eyes," he said.
With a slight nod, the man holding the cook held the captive's head toward the soldier in charge. That trooper took what appeared to be a pen light from his belt and shone it into the cook's eyes.
After a moment, the cook went slack.
After another moment, the captive stood straight and began walking toward the door, much like the other patrons had before.
The troopers turned to scan the rest of the kitchen with their flashlights. Satisfied, the Cobra trooper in charge called out to leave and move on to the next building.
After a few moments, Flint emerged from the refrigerator. Motioning to the rest in the room to stay down, he cautiously approached the swinging kitchen door and peered outside.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was really only a few minutes, Flint was satisfied. "You can come out now," he called out softly. "But stay quiet," he added.
Gradually, one by one, the barkeep and patrons and emerged from their hiding spots with varying degrees of shock and surprise registering on their faces.
"What the hell was that?" the waitress who had stood behind the bar demanded, shocked at seeing her cook disappear into the night.
Flint cast her a wary glance, but waited until Scarlett, Roadblock, and Lifeline emerged from their spots. "Cobra," he said with disgust. He placed his hands on his hips and the thoughts of what to do began swirling around in his mind.
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Salt and pepper shakers, glasses, and ketchup bottles lay shattered across tabletops, their contents spilled unceremoniously at the mysterious blue light that had abruptly ended an otherwise normal evening. The barkeep cast a wary glance toward the stoic Flint, then turned to pick up a push broom. She exchanged a few soft words with one of the patrons, and the two silently began cleaning off tables in a section at the back of the bar. They worked silently, pulling more tables into the area. Eventually, a meeting place took shape.
With a meaningful glance and a nod of his head, Flint once again silently directed Roadblock and Scarlett to keep watch out of the front of the building to ensure the Cobra soldiers wouldn't be back. He watched quietly as the barkeep finally set aside her broom and slid from patron to patron, talking to them softly and directing them to the newly cleaned tables. Periodically, she glanced at the Warrant Officer, as if waiting for him to address those now gathered in the small alcove. Flint had to admit, she and her friend had made short work of most of the debris.
Content with the watch out front, Flint turned to face the small group of people gathered around the tables. He knew that if they had any chance of surviving, he needed to establish himself as their leader. He hoped his actions thus far started them down that path, but getting them to trust him was another thing entirely. Still, he was a leader. And he would do everything in his power to keep these people safe. He glanced at Lifeline, who returned a small nod of support. It was time. "My name is Flint," he said calmly, addressing those gathered. He glanced around at Roadblock, Scarlett, and Lifeline. "The four of us are elite military personnel."
A small murmur broke out amongst the people, and Flint raised his hands to hush them. "We're going to keep you safe," he said, calling out above the clamor. "But we need your cooperation."
The barkeep stood sharply. "Are you gonna start by telling us what the hell's going on?" she asked, voicing the thought on everyone's minds.
Flint eyed her warily. "We don't know," he answered simply. As the small group began conversing at his admission, again, he attempted to assuage their fears. "Please, keep your voices down," he said.
"You," Flint said not unkindly, glancing at the barkeep. "What's your name?"
"She doesn't have to answer to you," someone else called, rising from his chair. Flint recognized him as one of the men who had been sitting at the bar, and as the one who had helped clean up the area in which they were all now gathered.
"Oh for god's sake, Pete," the waitress scoffed, before Flint could respond. "He's just asking my name."
Pete glanced sharply at the woman, effectively silencing her. He turned back to face Flint. "I can see you're military," Pete said, noting the uniform. "What proof you have that you're elite military?" he asked with a slight uptick of his head.
'Alpha-male,' Flint silently mused, assessing this Pete and taking note at how the rest of the patrons quietly watched the exchange. With a small sigh, Flint produced his dogtags. "Hopefully this will be enough."
Pete didn't know what the various markings on the dogtags meant, but thumbed them in consideration. "Dashiel?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at the Warrant Officer in disbelief.
"It's Flint," Dash said meaningfully, taking the tags back from Pete. "That's Scarlett, Roadblock and Lifeline," he added, indicating the rest of the team. Flint sent mental thanks for the foresight to make sure the team wore their uniforms that day, but it was small consolation as they had no weapons, not even back at the hotel. Once he determined Pete's line of questioning had ended, Flint glanced back at the barkeep.
"I'm Miriam," she said finally, stepping closer to Flint. "I own the place." She glanced around at the disarray. "Well," she said with a slight chuckle of self-defeat. "I guess I owned the place. Most of these folks," she added, glancing back at the group, "are regulars."
Flint nodded in her direction, his eyes softening in thanks. He looked over to Scarlett, and content that she was still keeping watch, he looked back over the group. "We're going to have to hang tight here for a little while," he said, as murmurs began all around him again. "At least until we get a handle on the situation."
One of the other patrons eyed Flint with a look of disgust in his eyes. "We all have family we need to check on," he said, a challenge in his eyes.
"You ain't got no family, Johnny," Miriam hollered to the patron, garnering a chuckle from Pete. Johnny's face reddened at the retort. "Still," she said, glancing at Flint. "He's right. Most these folks have people to check on."
Flint considered the exchange, but knew that for any of the civilians to leave the building now, they'd likely wind up much the same as the cook. Finally, he addressed the group. "I assure you," he said, "we will work through this together. And in time," he added, a little louder, "we will do everything we can to make contact with others. Until then, we need to stay low, stay quiet, and stay calm."
Inwardly, Flint breathed a sigh of relief as he noticed Miriam and Pete give him slight nods of approval. None of them would be safe, he thought, if they couldn't maintain some semblance of peace amongst them. After a minute, Flint turned his attention back to his team. "Scarlett. Lifeline," he called out. The two looked at him expectantly. "Recon."
Quietly, the three of them convened away from the small meeting area to talk about the mission. As Flint was about to send them off into the dark New York night, he noticed Pete approach. He sucked in his breath, waiting.
"Please," Pete said carefully, knowing he was interrupting the meeting. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a badge. "NYPD," he said. "I want to help."
Flint sized the man up, and finally understood the why behind Pete's previous alpha stance. He also knew he needed allies in this group of agitated civilians, and realized by their actions alone, Pete and Miriam would emerge as those allies and leaders. Flint fought a short battle with himself, knowing full well that in order to gain the trust of the civilians, he would have to trust them. Finally, he cast a quick glance to Scarlett, and caught her slight nod.
"Can you take orders?" he asked, meeting Pete's eyes.
"Yes sir," Pete responded.
"How much have you had to drink?"
Pete laughed off the suggestion.
Flint grabbed Pete's arm roughly and pulled him aside, out of earshot of the others. "Look," he said sternly, his eyes boring into Pete. "We need all the help we can get, but every move is critical. One wrong step, and we're all toast."
Pete shook off Flint's arm, and refused to cower. He stood up tall, straightened his shirt, and met Flint's gaze. "I know this city like the back of my hand," he said. "And like you said, you need me. And you need Miriam to help keep these civilians in line." His words got the desired effect, as he noticed Flint relax his stance just a tad. "You want recon, send me. I can get you radios, weapons, and gear. And if needed," he added, casting a quick glance outside, "I can help get us out of the city."
Again, Flint sized the man up. Every move was critical, but he could tell from Pete's demeanor that the man was not taking the situation lightly. It was a risk, but he also knew Pete was right.
"How much have you had to drink," Flint repeated, this time much more civilly.
Pete visibly relaxed, and even managed a slight smile. "Not much, I assure you."
Flint sighed. Taking his beret off, he ran his hand through his hair, and again glanced back at Scarlett. The red head had again taken up watch, keeping an eye on the streets outside. Replacing his beret, he nodded, and led Pete back to her.
"Do you have a weapon?" Flint asked the police officer.
Pete held open his jacket and flashed his sidearm for Flint to see, his back to the rest of the civilians. The Warrant Officer held out his hand, asking for the piece. Pete glanced at him dubiously, closing his jacket.
"This is recon only. Observation," Flint said, his tone unwavering. "Until I can be certain you're not going off half-cocked looking to play hero and getting us all killed in the process, I'll be taking your piece while you're out there."
Pete scoffed, but Flint would not waver. As he glanced at Scarlett, Pete could tell that she agreed with he who appeared to be in command of the small unit. Finally, reluctantly, Pete handed over the weapon.
Flint wasted no time. He took the weapon and slid it into the back of his pants, sparing a small look of gratitude toward Pete. "Scarlett's your point."
Pete nodded.
Flint called Lifeline back over to them. The four of them went through some basic hand signals and directions, ensuring that the three leaving the bar area were all on the same page.
"Remember," Flint said. "Recon only. Do not draw attention to yourselves, and do not jeopardize our location."
It was standard protocol for recon missions, but Scarlett knew it was Flint's way of reinforcing the imperative to Lifeline, who had never done this sort of thing, but being a pacifist was perfect for it. She glanced at Pete, knowing he was the wildcard.
As the group readied themselves to head out the door, Miriam approached. "Pete," she called out quietly.
Pete turned to look at her, a small smile at the corners of his mouth despite the severity of the situation he knew they were all in.
"Be careful," Miriam said simply, brushing a small speck of imaginary dirt from his jacket shoulder.
Pete nodded, his eyes lingering on her. "I gotta go," he said after a moment, breaking the small gaze between the two. He glanced back at Scarlett, indicating he was ready.
Silently, the three slipped through the doors. Two military elite, and one of New York's finest.
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A/N: So, it's been a while, hasn't it? As I said at the beginning of Chapter 1, time is a luxury we can't all afford. Still, I didn't mean to leave people hanging. Part of it's a matter of organization—I really wanted to take the time to sit down with what I already have and organize what's next into something a little more…well, organized. I haven't really been able to do that yet, and reading back, I realize I probably should have even reorganized what's already been posted. But, c'est la vie, right? Water under the bridge. I do think this chapter is what logically should go next though. I have a lot of planning to do for this story, so I'm not sure when my next update will be, but know I'm working on it. Thanks for reading and possibly reviewing. Constructive criticism always welcome.