Takedown (9 page)

“Great idea, Chris. Our next president would be Tiger Woods.”

“No, it would have to be a Clint Eastwood type, but younger. Someone with a face you’d be afraid to say no to. That’s all
a president really needs to be—a face. Everyone else around him does the work. All we elect is a face, so it better be one
that means business.”

“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Chris tapped his index finger on his head. “The wheels are always turning, Gav. I can’t help it, they just are.”

A lone cameraman turned a light on the senator as another man gave what appeared to be instructions.

“Good. When Senator Sweeney asks who’s in charge, I’ll tell him the guy with the squeaky head.”

“Oh no, you don’t. I’m not getting on camera with him. You were here first.”

“So what does that mean? Wait, don’t answer that. I can hear your rusty wheels turning, and I don’t know if I can deal with
the answer.”

T
he WWX girl of the month near ringside swung the long mallet with both hands and smashed the huge WWX gong as the background
music changed into a flesh-pounding, earsplitting, guitar-and-drum power jam. Jackhammer Hoban stepped out from behind the
curtain onto a dark stage. Overhead spotlights blasted him from three directions, and the sold-out coliseum erupted in boos.
Two giant screens came alive with old footage from past Jack-hammer action.

A long ramp led to the illuminated ring where Tyrant was pacing. Hoban knew Tyrant had been reluctantly brought out first
because they couldn’t wait any longer for him. Oddly, he didn’t care. From now on, everyone would be waiting for him, in and
out of the ring.

Hoban breathed in deeply—not from nervousness. He had an urge to breathe, to feel every air molecule fill his lungs. He couldn’t
remember ever doing that before. Except for him and the ring, the rest of the coliseum was dark, but he could see people in
the shadows twirling light sticks. He found curious pleasure in his ability to see them. And the music was clear and crisp.
Human lungs, human eyes, human ears, not like a dull-sensed tortoise,
he thought. But he didn’t know why he was thinking such things at all, much less at a time like this. He laughed at his thoughts
and at the crowd. He didn’t care whether or not they were booing or cheering. He liked
the music, the lights, the attention. But most of all, he liked what he was going to do with Tyrant, who was now standing
mid-ring, hands on hips, flexing his lats as wide as possible. Strangely, though he couldn’t remember ever seeing a live one,Tyrant
reminded him of a flared king cobra, ready to strike, a thought that didn’t frighten him in the least.

Hoban started toward the ring. As he stepped onto the long ramp there was a deafening explosion at his sides—billowing, beach-umbrella-size
mushroom clouds and a colorful array of continuous shooting sparks. Somehow he’d forgotten that was going to happen, but it
didn’t startle him. In fact, he felt great, above everything around him. Above
everyone
around him.

“Tyrant rules!” someone shouted as he passed amid other similar shouts, but he paid no attention.
Idiots.
His focus was on the man in the ring.
Puny human,
he thought, not knowing why the word
human
kept coming into his mind.

The WWX girl who had smashed the gong, then sensually ascended a small portable stairway to the ring’s ropes, now stepped
on the bottom rope with her knee-high black leather boots and lifted the middle one for Hoban to enter through.

“Get him,Tiger,” she said as he stepped up to the ropes.

More lights—not spots this time but flashes from cameras all around. He paused to look her up and down and figured the cameras
were more interested in her than him. That would change after tonight. He gazed into her eyes. Blue eyes that jumped out in
contrast to her jet-black hair and dead-white skin. Her black leather clothing did little to hide what the cameras wanted
to catch. But he sensed something else about her. Something familiar.

“I’ll see you after the fight,” she said with a wink.

“I know,” he said, his voice low and raspy, then entered the ring.

“About time, moron,” Tyrant sneered, just loud enough for Hoban and the referee to hear.

Hoban said nothing, just glared at Tyrant and thought how two, maybe three more of him would be a greater challenge, more
fun.

The referee became animatedly instructional for the audience, but in reality was saying nothing about any supposed rules,
only wishing them a safe contest and warning them not to crash into him. About twenty feet away from the ring was the table
where the announcers and commentators sat. Two men in suits, a wrestler who was supposed to fight the winner—who, of course,
they all knew would be Tyrant—and a woman, Tanya Grossman, daughter of fan-despised WWX owner, Michael Grossman. Behind them
were TV cameras and sound-mixing-board operators with headphones on. Two other men with TV cameras on their shoulders walked
about, mostly focused on the shouting audience.

When the music stopped, the four corner posts simultaneously exploded with more fireworks. Enough coliseum lights came on
to illuminate the audience.

“And now for the main event we’ve all been waiting for,” the announcer in the suit said, his amplified voice echoing throughout
the vast hall.

Hoban continued to stand still as Tyrant paced and flexed for the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen… In what has been called the WWX contest of the century, a rematch of the challenger, seven feet and
three-hundred thirty pounds of revenge, the former WWX champion of the world, Jack… Hammer… Hobaaaannnnn!”

When the boos came they were louder than he had ever heard them—for anyone.
All the better,
was the last thing he thought before his mind began to wander. The announcer’s voice slowed and faded as the boos and heckling
changed—grew louder, clearer… different. In fact, the audience was no longer booing at all but chanting. He didn’t understand
at first what they were saying, as if the word was from another language. The bright spotlights
from the ceiling girders also began to change until they were like sunlight and he felt warmth. Soon the sunlight was hot.
Sweat dripped from his brow. The taste of his own blood was in his mouth, and the smell of animals and burnt oil was strong
in the still, humid air.

Was he hallucinating? More of the drugs? Or maybe this was a daydream. But it seemed more like a memory than a daydream. That’s
what it was. He was remembering something. He saw himself in a different coliseum, one without a roof, the crowds continuing
to chant. The ground was sandy and he was riding what appeared to be a chariot, like in that old
Ben Hur
movie. He could feel the horses’ worn leather reins in the palm of his hand. He felt proud, very proud. But how could this
be a memory? He had never even touched a horse, much less a chariot.

He controlled the horses around the arena as expertly as if he had known them his whole life. In the center of the dirt field
lay a fallen enemy, a broken pile of metal and flesh. The bloodlust of the audience intensified, their eyes wild and hungry.
He was their master. He looked at the reins in his hands. His skin was different too, darker, scarred.

That’s when he realized what they were chanting. The word, or rather the name, was tattooed to his right forearm. They were
chanting the name on his arm. “Krogan, Krogan, Krogan.”

“… and defending his title, the WWX presents the undisputed champion of the world… the one… the only… Tyyyyyrant!”

“Tyrant… Tyrant… Tyrant,” came the chant.

With a quick shake of his head, Hoban found himself back in the ring, realizing with the introduction that only a second or
two had passed. Tyrant climbed up onto one of the corner posts and stretched out his arms to his fans, then back-flipped onto
his feet in the middle of the ring and faced Hoban. The fans screamed wildly.

“Look at him—he’s wasted,” Tyrant muttered to the mock ref so only the three of them could hear under the crowd noise.

Hoban only smiled, saying nothing.

“Look, Hammerhead, I know life must seem unfair to you right now, but if you screw up our routine, I might forget to break
my fall when I land on your face.”

The ref blew his whistle and backed away.

As per the script, Tyrant began sprightly circling the ring as if to find the vulnerable point of attack. At first Hoban didn’t
move, but then thought it would be amusing to play the game. Accordingly, he cut Tyrant off from his circling and engaged
his arms, grappling head to head for the stronger advantage, then with a sudden drop and twist to the left, threw Tyrant into
the ropes, where he would propel himself for the next move.

Hoban could not remember when he’d felt this strong and confident. And despite the drugs and drinks, his mind was so clear
and his thinking so sharp, he knew exactly what he wanted and didn’t care about the consequences. In fact,
he
would determine all consequences.

He stepped into Tyrant’s path and locked arms with him as he was supposed to… as he had done to begin so many previous bouts,
including his last one with Tyrant. But when had he ever been so energized? Tyrant’s grip felt like a child’s. Hoban smirked.
So he wants the routine?

Hoban tightened the grip of his right hand on the back of Tyrant’s neck and with his left hand squeezed his weak opponent’s
right forearm.
Puny human,
he thought with contempt.

Tyrant grimaced, shock in his eyes, about to say something, but Hoban responded quickly with the scripted move, only with
much more power and speed than ever before. Tyrant hit the ropes too hard to coordinate his countermove. Instead of using
his agile footwork, which he was known for, to slingshot his way back, he had to
hold on to the ropes so as not to go through them. He wound up on the floor.

The crowd booed. Hoban raised his right fist to the audience and, laughing, stuck out his middle finger at them, then pointed
it in the face of the TV camera. The boos became louder and the commentators became very animated, needing to quickly censor
the forbidden gesture.

Hoban taunted Tyrant with mock concern. “What’s the matter, forgot your move?” He inhaled deeply, wondering why he kept thinking
about the molecules of air in his lungs.

Tyrant frowned as he struggled to his feet. Now he had to improvise. He began to circle again, as if maybe he could start
over.

Hoban found he didn’t care what Tyrant did. He was in total control of his opponent and, to whatever degree he wanted, the
audience. This was the start of a new reign.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Hoban mocked as Tyrant circled him.

“Have you lost your mind?” Tyrant hissed as he lunged forward to lock arms.

Hoban, his reflexes faster than he had ever known them to be, effortlessly grabbed Tyrant’s right forearm with one hand and,
with a crushing grip, forced him slowly to his knees.

“Agghhh,” Tyrant yelled as Hoban increased the pressure, forcing his face lower and lower. “What are you doing?”

The commentators were still very animated, their faces painted with surprise and concern.

“You’re a waste and a bore, Tyrant. Crawl away.”

When Tyrant cursed him, Hoban squeezed tighter and pressed downward until he heard the bone snap.

“Ohhh, my God!” Tyrant screamed, his eyes wide with fear and pain. “You broke my—” was the last heard from him before Hoban’s
foot kicked his mouth shut, sending Tyrant across the ring
and onto his back. Tyrant was still and silent, most certainly out cold, his broken forearm bent backward like rubber.

Hoban looked at the ref, who stood in frozen shock, staring at the Tyrant’s limp body. “Count,” Hoban ordered loudly.

The ref looked at Hoban, than back at Tyrant, then back to Hoban again.

“Count,” Hoban mouthed, his glare sending the rest of the message.

The ref dropped to his knees next to Tyrant and put his ear to the fallen man’s chest. His eyes widened, then looked again
at Hoban. “I don’t think he’s breathing.”

“Count.”

Hoban paid no attention to the frenzied paramedics racing Tyrant away on a stretcher. Nor did he care about the gathering
of confused, angry WWX execs below the ring. He was interested only in the message he was about to give the world, both seen
and unseen. For the first time in his life he had an unexplainable belief in a spiritual realm. A world of invisible onlookers
in an arena that dwarfed the coliseum were all giving him their undivided attention.

“Listen to me,” he yelled, emphasizing every word, as a dictator would address the crowds from a balcony.

The entire coliseum fell still. All the animated WWX conversations around the ring ceased. All eyes were upon him as he had
demanded.

“I am back… And I am God.”

Hoban marched through the littered cement hallways of the coliseum basement, followed on all sides by a throng of photographers
flashing shots, reporters barking out a blur of questions, WWX people in their various attire of costumes and suits, and the
completely ignored coliseum security. Hoban ignored them all. There
were things on his mind. Strange thoughts about people he somehow knew but didn’t think he’d ever met. When he came to his
dressing room door, he entered and closed it behind him, shutting out the hungry crowd. He turned and saw someone sitting
on the makeup tabletop.

“Hello again,” said the WWX girl of the month. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Angel.”

Hoban smiled darkly. “I’ll have to remember that.”

T
uesday morning happened the instant Amy opened the bedroom blinds. Gavin had been asleep, exhausted from the previous night’s
work that carried well into the predawn hours.

“What time is it?” he mumbled, unwilling to open his eyelids. Since Amy had moved in with him two years ago, he never knew
what time it was upon waking. Unlike him, Amy was a very light sleeper and would not allow any light in their southeastern-exposed
bedroom. Not only did that mean blinds closed and clocks without lighted dials, but a humidifier with no water in the tank.
Used only for the drone of its motor to drown out outside noise, it was on all night, every night.

Gavin, on the other hand, was a man of momentum, as Amy would say. Once awake he wanted to stay awake; once asleep, he wanted
to stay asleep. He depended on the morning’s light and sounds to stir him. These natural acquaintances, along with reading
in his bed at night after she was asleep, were now just a memory and sources of hard-fought arguments lost long ago. Amy,
normally an early riser, would now determine when he would awake.

“Time for your coffee,” Amy said, the ceramic clink of a cup and saucer to his left followed by the aroma of fresh-brewed
mountain blend.

“Hmm, smells good,” Gavin said, wanting to add, “What’s the occasion?” On a workday he rarely benefited from little other
than
the ritual opening of the blinds. “So, really, what time is it?” he repeated, shielding his eyes as he opened them. The day
was unusually bright. Another hot one on the way, he supposed.

“Twelve.”

“Noon?” Gavin gasped. His eyes shot open, his hand reaching for his wristwatch. “You can’t let me sleep till noon!”

“Well, you didn’t get to bed till five-thirty.”

“Five-thirty? That late?”

“Been up ever since.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be. I mean, saving lives and hunting down bad guys while your wife’s safe at home in bed. Shame on you.”

“You’re right. You’re always right,” he said with a yawn. He watched Amy move around the bedroom, picking the clothes up off
the rocking chair he’d shucked off before getting into bed. She looked pregnant enough to explode. Did she always work this
hard when he was at work?

“Of course I’m right. That’s why you have to get up—now— and take a quick shower. Your socks are wet,” she said, almost dropping
them in the hamper, but then keeping them separate.

“Now?” he said, feeling comfortable to still be lying down.

“And take your coffee into the bathroom with you. Larry will be here in five minutes.”

“Larry?”

“Yes, so get a move on.”

“Larry who?”

Amy rolled her green eyes. “Larry Larson,” she said, draping a fresh blue towel over the bedpost by his feet.

Gavin looked at his cup of coffee, the one he would now have to drink in the bathroom while waiting the thirty seconds it
would take for the shower water to get hot. “Who’s Larry Larson?”

“Gavin,” she said incredulously.

“I just woke up.”

“It’s twelve noon.”

Larry, Larry, Larry?
he said to himself, searching for a face. Oh no. “The decorator?”

“I knew you could do it. He says he usually likes to start in the master suite with expectant mothers because that’s where
they spend most of the first couple of months.”

“Master suite?” Gavin took a moment to think about the logic and wonder what it had to do with his being rushed out of bed.
“And being that he’s the boss when it comes to decorating—and on a tight schedule that we should be grateful to be squeezed
into— I’d better get in and out of the bathroom as fast as I can.”

“Is this how it all comes together on the job?”

Gavin eased himself out of the covers. “On good days,” he said, cracking his neck, walking his coffee and fresh blue towel
to the bathroom.

The smartest improvement he’d ever made to the house was to his shower. Large, a full three and a half feet wide, seven feet
long, with a seat. Not a built-in seat, but a white plastic patio chair he could position where he wanted. For Gavin, life
began every day in the shower, and he didn’t like the process rushed. Wait very patiently for the hot water, get in, adjust
the temperature, find the shampoo, wash hair, and then the rest of his body with the suds. Teeth next, then splash water on
the steam-fogged mirror, and shave. Everything was so much easier and faster in the shower. With hygiene quickly out of the
way, the chair was next.

He slowed the water to half volume and arranged the chair so the hot water would massage his back and neck. He liked it hot—
too hot for Amy, who often told him he was crazy. With the sounds of the world blocked out and the meditative steamy water
stilling and quieting his mind, Gavin let his thoughts go where they
wanted—Amy and the new baby, the construction project, the pregnancy, Amy… the baby… Amy.

Until a little over a year ago, his first thoughts would have been the safety of a particular tortoise.

The tricks one’s mind can play. Oddly, he missed the prayers, even for the tortoise. There was something about the level of
God’s involvement in his life that made him feel special. Buck had once told him that God was more interested in his life
than he was. Before Amy, that would have been an easy task for even a Chiquita banana, but since Amy, life had become important.
As the water temperature began to wane, Gavin’s thoughts were invaded, as they usually were, by nagging questions about the
new case. Time to towel off.

A knock at the door. “Gavin, Larry’s here,” Amy sang sweetly. “We’re going to need to get in there soon.” There was other
discussion going on, which ended with Amy saying, “Don’t worry, it’s all right. He’s been in there long enough.”

When Gavin exited the bathroom, shrouded in his terry-cloth robe Amy and, he supposed, Larry Larkin—or Larmond or whatever
his name was—were standing across the room holding color swatches against the window trim and the wall. He also noticed Amy
had laid out clean clothes for him on the bed. Apparently, he was supposed to take them and dress somewhere else.

“I think the butter yellow would be very pretty against the…” Larry said before they both turned to him, smiling… guiltily,
Gavin thought. Trespassing. The man could be pushing sixty, but the plastic surgery tugging his eyes at the corners like a
Siamese cat made it difficult to tell. His brown hair had wisps of frosted blond highlights. Gavin didn’t like him. Face lifted,
tight jeans, bright green socks, polished tan penny loafers, a gold earring, and probably a tummy tuck under that whiter-than-white
tight T-shirt— hardly the picture of the one to be decorating his house.

“Hi, honey. Sorry to rush you. This is Larry Larson, our new decorator. You should see what he did to Nancy’s house.”

“Nancy?”

“Nancy Baker,” she said slowly, with emphasis. “Michael’s wife. You know, that big, old Great Neck house.”

“On yeah, yeah,” he lied. He didn’t particularly like Great Neck and didn’t want his house to look like it belonged there.

“Well, thanks to Larry, their house is now a home.”

“Because of the decorations?” Gavin said, unable to resist but trying to sound innocent. The very last thing he wanted was
to get her upset. But why couldn’t she just eat weird things like every other expectant mother he’d ever heard of?

“Ing,” Amy said, giving him a look that made him wish he’d said nothing. “Decorat-
ing
. I’m talking about a house, not a Christmas tree.”

“Sorry.”

Larry’s smile leveled into concern. “Amy tells me you were at the train wreck.”

Gavin looked first at Amy before answering. She knew how little he liked discussing his work with people, particularly strangers
… and this Larry would fall into his
stranger
stranger category. He looked at Larry and nodded politely. “It was a long night.”

Larry nodded also, as if falling in sync with Gavin’s exact motion. “I’ll bet. Do you have any idea who was behind it? I mean,
enough of this terrorism, already.”

Before Gavin could say anything he’d later regret, Amy quickly piped up. “Gavin really isn’t allowed to discuss an ongoing
case, Larry,” she said, her eyes asking Gavin to be nice.

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course, I should have known.”

Gavin gestured with his hand for Larry to forget it.

“
Watashi wa shiawase,
” Amy said, her eyes friendly with gratitude.

Gavin looked at her, standing next to her decorator, holding a color swatch in her hand, her pumpkin belly proudly carrying
their future. Her Japanese phrase, simply telling him she was happy, suddenly made everything make sense. That was, after
all, all he really wanted.

“
Watashi wa shiawase,
” he said as he gathered his clothes to dress… somewhere.