Three bald Latino guys with goatees wearing earpieces, bowties and suits stepped out from either door and approached my car. One tapped on the driver’s side window. The others took up a strategic place at the side and rear of my vehicle, blocking me in. They folded their hands one over the other and waited for me to just try and pull away. The way they held themselves it was obvious they were carrying at least four guns.
I ignored them and rolled down my window. It creaked loudly as I turned the manual handle over and over to bring it down. Not knowing what else to say, I simply announced myself. “Special Agent Judah Black to see Kim Kelley.”
The guard at my window gestured down the road. “She’s expecting you. Bring your car down the lane and park to the side of the estate.”
I put my hand on the door handle and pulled it, intending to step out and explain to them my car had overheated. The minute they realized I was moving to get out, all three of them stiffened. The one closest to my door put a hand on the car, holding the door closed. “Do not exit the vehicle,” he commanded and then added, “for your own safety.”
“Uh…” I blinked. “Well, my car kind of overheated. I can’t drive it down the lane until it’s cooled off.”
The suit frowned at me, pressed a finger to his earpiece and relayed the information. As if they were puppets on a string, the other two placed their fingers on their earpieces, too. After a moment, the first one said, “Confirmed. Stand down.” He gestured to me. “Miss, please exit the vehicle, keeping your hands visible and turn to place your hands on the hood of the car.”
My jaw fell open. “I’m just here for lunch. I’m not going to let you frisk me.”
“I can’t allow you on the premises without a search.” He pulled open the door and held it. “Please. No one wants an incident.”
I lifted my hands off the steering wheel where I’d placed them and held them up in a gesture of surrender as I got out of the car. Something black shifted on the roof of a smaller building ahead and I thought I saw the glint of sun against metal. Holy hell. They had a sniper set up? Was this a house or a compound?
Urged by the goon in the suit, I turned around, spread my legs and placed my hands on the hood of the car. A decade or so before the Revelation, a little something known as Stop-and-Frisk was the talk of the nation. It was a practice whereby police officers stopped pedestrians who were doing nothing but going about their business to pat them down for contraband. People were up in arms mainly because it was minorities being targeted. The white male establishment argued it was better to be safe than sorry, especially given the level of violence in major cities at the time.
Clearly, they’d never been frisked.
It’s not just a gentle pat down. Professionals can get through one pretty quick, searching up and down the ankles, inner and outer thighs, backside, ribs and so on. A proper frisk also goes through the pockets, looking for small, easily concealed weapons. While I acknowledged it was necessary in certain situations to find and remove weapons, too often when male officers took it upon themselves to pat down a woman, there was more behind the motive than a search for weapons.
But I wasn’t going to bust any heads so long as Brutus the Suit and his buddies kept it professional.
He pulled the nine millimeter I kept at my hip, handed it off and then kept looking. I rolled my eyes. “You know, if I wanted to hurt your boss, I don’t need a weapon. I’ve got magick, in case you haven’t heard.”
“You read auras,” said Brutus. “The Mistress’ mage is ten times the practitioner you are. And if you did try anything, you’d be dead before the thought finished crossing your mind.”
“Watch it, bud,” I said as his hands came around my front, patting my waist.
I let out a little curse as he found the silver stakes I kept on a special holster
I ignored them and rolled down my window. It creaked loudly as I turned the manual handle over and over to bring it down. Not knowing what else to say, I simply announced myself. “Special Agent Judah Black to see Kim Kelley.”
The guard at my window gestured down the road. “She’s expecting you. Bring your car down the lane and park to the side of the estate.”
I put my hand on the door handle and pulled it, intending to step out and explain to them my car had overheated. The minute they realized I was moving to get out, all three of them stiffened. The one closest to my door put a hand on the car, holding the door closed. “Do not exit the vehicle,” he commanded and then added, “for your own safety.”
“Uh…” I blinked. “Well, my car kind of overheated. I can’t drive it down the lane until it’s cooled off.”
The suit frowned at me, pressed a finger to his earpiece and relayed the information. As if they were puppets on a string, the other two placed their fingers on their earpieces, too. After a moment, the first one said, “Confirmed. Stand down.” He gestured to me. “Miss, please exit the vehicle, keeping your hands visible and turn to place your hands on the hood of the car.”
My jaw fell open. “I’m just here for lunch. I’m not going to let you frisk me.”
“I can’t allow you on the premises without a search.” He pulled open the door and held it. “Please. No one wants an incident.”
I lifted my hands off the steering wheel where I’d placed them and held them up in a gesture of surrender as I got out of the car. Something black shifted on the roof of a smaller building ahead and I thought I saw the glint of sun against metal. Holy hell. They had a sniper set up? Was this a house or a compound?
Urged by the goon in the suit, I turned around, spread my legs and placed my hands on the hood of the car. A decade or so before the Revelation, a little something known as Stop-and-Frisk was the talk of the nation. It was a practice whereby police officers stopped pedestrians who were doing nothing but going about their business to pat them down for contraband. People were up in arms mainly because it was minorities being targeted. The white male establishment argued it was better to be safe than sorry, especially given the level of violence in major cities at the time.
Clearly, they’d never been frisked.
It’s not just a gentle pat down. Professionals can get through one pretty quick, searching up and down the ankles, inner and outer thighs, backside, ribs and so on. A proper frisk also goes through the pockets, looking for small, easily concealed weapons. While I acknowledged it was necessary in certain situations to find and remove weapons, too often when male officers took it upon themselves to pat down a woman, there was more behind the motive than a search for weapons.
But I wasn’t going to bust any heads so long as Brutus the Suit and his buddies kept it professional.
He pulled the nine millimeter I kept at my hip, handed it off and then kept looking. I rolled my eyes. “You know, if I wanted to hurt your boss, I don’t need a weapon. I’ve got magick, in case you haven’t heard.”
“You read auras,” said Brutus. “The Mistress’ mage is ten times the practitioner you are. And if you did try anything, you’d be dead before the thought finished crossing your mind.”
“Watch it, bud,” I said as his hands came around my front, patting my waist.
I let out a little curse as he found the silver stakes I kept on a special holster
Similar Books
