Chapter 10
Luca
Why in the fuck hasn’t Cyrus texted me yet?
He and another guard are supposed to escort a heavily disguised Evan to cover the Freedom Festival.
I’d pretty much been in hourly contact with Evan’s new bodyguard to make sure everything was going smoothly.
He texted me this morning from their hotel room and said he’d notify me when Evan was securely in the media area of the VIP section, where he’d be able to observe and give in-person accounts of the day’s events in his next articles.
I’d check on them myself, but I’d been called to the back section of the festival to deal with some young Reiver prospects who Digger had obviously planted to start shit in the crowd.
I cleared them out by posing as DEA, but now that Digger has stormed the stage, I posted up back here to ensure they don’t come back.
It's all going more calmly than expected, but I’d be a lot less on edge if Cyrus would let me know Evan is safe.
I wonder if I’m so impatient about Cyrus’s call because I’m jonesing to see Evan again. I’m like a fucking lovesick puppy staring off into space, thinking about Evan. Grave even took pity on me and offered to let me be Evan’s backup guard in the VIP section, but I’d refused.
I insisted that I was planning to avoid Evan and make sure we didn’t see each other when he was in Lexington, but the minute I knew he was in town last night, I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep away. It's been the equivalent of emotional edging waiting to see him.
But I need to control my thoughts and focus on the job I have to do here today.
I watch Digger strut around the stage and spew his shit-talking, and I can’t believe I followed that man’s orders for so many years.
Checking my watch, I see that the stage light explosion, which is meant to simulate the sound of a bullet, is scheduled to go off in forty-two seconds, but as I wait to go into action, I hear commotion over my com. Eli’s clipped voice is calling my name.
“Luca, how far are you from the press box?”
I gauge the distance between me and the empty sixties-style building that, back in the day, housed journalists when they were covering sporting events. “About four hundred feet,” I say, gauging the distance.
“I need you to get over there now. There is an active shooter set up to fire at the stage, and Evan Kelly is being held by three Patriots Now members on the west side of the building.”
I’m running before Eli finishes the sentence. Shots begin firing at the stage, and I don’t stop to turn around to see the damage they do. There’s no time. I have to get to that press box and disarm the shooter.
I have to get to Evan.