Page 27 of Sam to the Rescue

“Yeah. I heard some other stuff, too.” I let my fucked-up imagination run wild. “Aliens made the coronavirus. They blasted these lasers at some chickens in Wuhan and changed their DNA. They’re the ones who hired the Russians to kill us. That’s why they hacked into our software. Let me tell you, if we don’t do something soon, Americans are going to be extinct. I for one, am not going to let that happen.”

“What do you have in mind?” Edge stops his play and stares as I lower my voice.

“I’m not at liberty to say but it’s huge. It’ll capture the attention of the whole world and make the politicians stop fucking around and do something.”

“I hear ya, brother.” We play another game and when a couple of his friends join us, I figure I made the cut, and am in like Flynn.

When they ask me outside, I fully expect them to offer me a job but I was wrong, dead wrong. The first one throws a sucker punch which I block with my forearm.

The second pulls a blade, handle front, military style.

“I’ll give you one chance to back the fuck down.” To make sure I have plenty of leg room, I ease into the street one slow backwards step at a time.

When the dude’s eyes flick to my hands, I deliver a de-manning kick to his nuts. As he doubles over, the other guy, a hell of a lot bigger, uses my temporary unbalance to knock me on my ass.

Hands on the pavement, I swing my foot behind his knee and when he crumbles, I put full weight on his larynx. “We done here?”

Gasping, he nods.

That was too easy and sure enough, as I’m letting go, an authoritative female shouts from across the street. “Police! Hands in the air.”

I glare at the two smirking men. Seconds later, they claim I attacked them and the bartender backs them up.

It’s a damn fine play. If I magically turn up out of jail, they’ll know I’m undercover. If I don’t, I spend the night in the slammer, another test of my survival skills.

Sighing, I allow myself to be cuffed and taken downtown.

Chapter 18

Sam

What could Ms. Hosseini possibly have to gain by triggering my husband’s PTSD? She better have a damn good explanation because I am ready to rip her head off.

In Bay Ridge, I exit the Uber on Senator Street and press all of the buzzers of number two-twenty. With no smart bells to give me away, it doesn’t take long for someone to let me in.

Upstairs, I pound on my suspect’s front door. “Yo. Open up or I call the police. It’s up to you.”

“Go away.” A fortyish woman of Arabic descent cracks open the door.

When her wary eyes dart up and down the long hallway, I step back so she can better view her nosy neighbors. “You sure you want me to make a scene?”

“Just a moment.” Turning her head, she speaks to someone inside, then wraps a large pink shawl around her head.

“Come.” With her face mostly hidden, she hops down a flight of stairs and stops at the first landing. “There’s a place we can go, nearby.”

In the cool evening air, we hurry past a restaurant, a smoke shop, and a movie theater. A couple blocks later, we enter a diner where a hostess ushers us to a back booth and drops menus on the table.

Once we’re seated, my suspect lowers her scarf below her mouth. “What is it you want?”

“Simple. Why are you stalking my husband?” Physical intimidation is not my strong suit but I give it my best shot and lean in.

At my accusation, her mouth drops open and a bead of sweat forms on her forehead. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“This is you, is it not?” I shove my cell phone across the table.

The image of her exiting the green jeep makes her pale and she eyes the street as if about to bolt. “I swear, I don’t know him.”

“Give us a few more minutes, please.” I say this to the arriving waitress.