down loudly. Devin winces from the thumping sounds of each blow. The fireman tips his head to a forty-something woman standing just on the other side of the x-ray machine ’ s belt. “ Is all that really necessary? ”
“ Policy, sir, ” she says without emotion. The woman barely even glances at him. “ Just a random check. Please collect your belongings. ”
Enduring a steady stream of insults, the bald officer starts to wand down the Muslim. The device screeches out no warnings, yet he continues to go over the Arab again and again. The officers almost sigh in disappointment when he powers the wand off.
“ What ’ s your name? I want to file a complaint, ” Abd yells. “ This is ridiculous. You hear me? You and all your redneck, racist friends can burn in hell. ”
“ With liberty and justice for all … ”
Chapter 7
8:15 a.m.
A monotonous loop of misfortune flashes on the TV screen. Averting his eyes, Devin sits down at one of the round wooden tables toward the rear of the PDX cafe. He carefully takes the plastic lid off his steaming cup of coffee, pouring in two Irish creamers. If only they were the real thing …
His hands twitch.
Devin glances at the two lanky teenagers from the check-in area eating breakfast several tables away. Dressed in light blue, white, and red letterman jackets, the two young men don ’ t seem to mind that their conversation is loud enough for everyone in the cafe to enjoy.
Darius throws a playful jab into Chris ’ s shoulder as his teammate tries to type on his laptop. The 15-inch computer keyboard looks like a toy in Chris ’ s massive hands.
“ Come on, D, ” Chris says, shooting Darius a frosty glare. “ I gotta get this done! ”
“ Not my fault you left it ‘ til now, ” Darius counters. “ Got mine done yesterday before the game. ” He watches his lifelong friend ’ s agitation with growing amusement. The more Chris tries to concentrate, the deeper the scowl cutting across his face becomes. Veins rise along his temples. The tick-tick-tick of his writing seems to come in fevered bursts, like trying to chase an inspired mirage.
A mischievous smile suddenly plays across Darius ’ s face. “ Bet you ’ re wishing you woulda ’ put that phone down last night, too. Talking ’ til 1. Didn ’ t do you much good with your girl anyway. ” Darius leans over in front of Chris ’ s screen and squints his eyes. A thin sprout of a mustache stands out above his awkward expression. “ Well, that ’ s just bad time management on your part, young Christopher, ” he says in an authoritative tone, over-enunciating every word.
Chris finally smiles. He shakes his head at the crappy Nixon impersonation. “ Asshole. ”
“ That was completely unnecessary, young Christopher, ” Darius continues. He scowls back like all the teachers he ’ s disappointed over the years. “ You really should work on expanding your vocabulary. Your command of the English language is quite appalling. ”
Still watching from two tables away, Devin smiles. He ’ s faintly reminded of some of his own friendships over the years — masculinity and affection always seeming at odds.
Devin ’ s green eyes drift across the rich mixture of microbrew handles on display behind the bar to his left. Each stands ready for the parched vacationer or nervous businessman ’ s enjoyment. As the familiar urge swells, his mouth is suddenly very dry.
He swallows hard.
Devin forces his eyes away, glancing back up to the morning ’ s news on the television set. Masked Middle Eastern gunmen wave machine guns brightly back from the corner-mounted LCD screen above him. The flickering video strobes throughout the cafe, momentarily pushing back shadows before giving ground again.
“ Several I.E.D. attacks in the Middle East early this morning killed 11 Americans, ” a news anchor says calmly. The imagery of ash and charred remains is anything but. “ The violence against U.S. citizens
“ Policy, sir, ” she says without emotion. The woman barely even glances at him. “ Just a random check. Please collect your belongings. ”
Enduring a steady stream of insults, the bald officer starts to wand down the Muslim. The device screeches out no warnings, yet he continues to go over the Arab again and again. The officers almost sigh in disappointment when he powers the wand off.
“ What ’ s your name? I want to file a complaint, ” Abd yells. “ This is ridiculous. You hear me? You and all your redneck, racist friends can burn in hell. ”
“ With liberty and justice for all … ”
Chapter 7
8:15 a.m.
A monotonous loop of misfortune flashes on the TV screen. Averting his eyes, Devin sits down at one of the round wooden tables toward the rear of the PDX cafe. He carefully takes the plastic lid off his steaming cup of coffee, pouring in two Irish creamers. If only they were the real thing …
His hands twitch.
Devin glances at the two lanky teenagers from the check-in area eating breakfast several tables away. Dressed in light blue, white, and red letterman jackets, the two young men don ’ t seem to mind that their conversation is loud enough for everyone in the cafe to enjoy.
Darius throws a playful jab into Chris ’ s shoulder as his teammate tries to type on his laptop. The 15-inch computer keyboard looks like a toy in Chris ’ s massive hands.
“ Come on, D, ” Chris says, shooting Darius a frosty glare. “ I gotta get this done! ”
“ Not my fault you left it ‘ til now, ” Darius counters. “ Got mine done yesterday before the game. ” He watches his lifelong friend ’ s agitation with growing amusement. The more Chris tries to concentrate, the deeper the scowl cutting across his face becomes. Veins rise along his temples. The tick-tick-tick of his writing seems to come in fevered bursts, like trying to chase an inspired mirage.
A mischievous smile suddenly plays across Darius ’ s face. “ Bet you ’ re wishing you woulda ’ put that phone down last night, too. Talking ’ til 1. Didn ’ t do you much good with your girl anyway. ” Darius leans over in front of Chris ’ s screen and squints his eyes. A thin sprout of a mustache stands out above his awkward expression. “ Well, that ’ s just bad time management on your part, young Christopher, ” he says in an authoritative tone, over-enunciating every word.
Chris finally smiles. He shakes his head at the crappy Nixon impersonation. “ Asshole. ”
“ That was completely unnecessary, young Christopher, ” Darius continues. He scowls back like all the teachers he ’ s disappointed over the years. “ You really should work on expanding your vocabulary. Your command of the English language is quite appalling. ”
Still watching from two tables away, Devin smiles. He ’ s faintly reminded of some of his own friendships over the years — masculinity and affection always seeming at odds.
Devin ’ s green eyes drift across the rich mixture of microbrew handles on display behind the bar to his left. Each stands ready for the parched vacationer or nervous businessman ’ s enjoyment. As the familiar urge swells, his mouth is suddenly very dry.
He swallows hard.
Devin forces his eyes away, glancing back up to the morning ’ s news on the television set. Masked Middle Eastern gunmen wave machine guns brightly back from the corner-mounted LCD screen above him. The flickering video strobes throughout the cafe, momentarily pushing back shadows before giving ground again.
“ Several I.E.D. attacks in the Middle East early this morning killed 11 Americans, ” a news anchor says calmly. The imagery of ash and charred remains is anything but. “ The violence against U.S. citizens
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