1645
Exxon
Charlotte, North Carolina
June 4th, 2015
GREENE'S BEEN HIT!
FUCK! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE! FALL BACK!
Boy, what are you doing?
"Hey, boy! I'm talkin' to you!"
In an instant, Cal snapped back into reality, his head turning towards the sound of the voice that was confronting him. The responsible party was an older white mechanic, probably in his late-50s. His unkempt beard and grease-stained blue jumpsuit contrasted heavily with the bespoke tailored black suit and the clean-shaven appearance of Cal, who was en route to Willie's viewing after having stopped for some coffee in Uptown. He made eye contact with the man for a moment, examining his rather frustrated reaction. As he did so, he could smell the rather nauseating odor of gasoline, as he was filling his 2008 Chevrolet Tahoe with gas.
"Got enough gas?" the mechanic asked.
Cal pondered on the question, and looked down at the nozzle, which was clearly filling the vehicle with more gas than necessary. The fuel ws leaking from the gas tank, making a gurgling sound as gas leaked down the side of the Tahoe and onto the ground. He didn't notice until now that his hand was firmly clenched on the handle, pumping more gas than necessary.
"SHIT!"
Cal immediately released the handle and jumped back, as an ashamed, embarrassed expression took over his face. He looked towards the mechanic and gave a sigh, before looking back at the gas tank. He was truly embarrassed; he thought he had brought his PTSD under control a long time ago; his Army service had exposed him to all sorts of scenarios, but it seemed that Willie's death had undermined all of the progress that he had made. Cal himself was with Willie the day he died, as he was in charge of the diplomat's security during a hostage exchange in Somalia that had gone terribly wrong. Everything was going good as Willie skillfully negotiated for the release of the American aid workers that had been seized by a local Mogadishu warlord, but suddenly, someone fired a shot. Cal swore it wasn't his guys, but it didn't matter when his lifelong friend suffered a round through his right thigh. Gunfire erupted, and while they had managed to evacuate Willie, two private contractors had been killed in the firefight, and Willie died of internal bleeding just as they had made it to the extraction zone.
It had been a week since Willie's death, and Cal had spent most of it in a grey room in the Harry S. Truman Building in D.C., undergoing his "evaluation." He was grilled with an endless series of questions from not only his superiors in the DSS, but from Secretary Kerry himself and even some members of Congress. Willie was earmarked to become the US Ambassador to Somalia; he was truly the most effective diplomat for such a job. The evaluation reflected the Foreign Service's opinion on the matter; their best diplomat was dead, and they needed to pin the blame on someone. He was constantly accused of having ignored blatant security risks, despite his pleas that not only had he been given a restrictive security ROE, but the personnel that he had requested had been severely limited. In truth, he had no idea who had spoiled the exchange, but he had a feeling that he was going to be thrown under the bus. The DSS had placed him on administrative leave, and there was talk that a Senate Hearing was to be convened in order to get to the bottom of the situation. His involvement had largely been kept hush-hush by the DSS, but the world knew of the incident.
Cal shook away his pondering thoughts, and focused on the situation at hand.
"Sorry, I...uh...zoned out there," he said rather meekly, uncharacteristic of him.
"Well, don't start up your car till you get to the end of the road," the mechanic said. "I've been fuckin' with AC compressors all day, and the last gosh damn thing I need is for the whole gas station to go up in flames."
"Wouldn't want that, sir."
Cal put up the device, and looked towards the monitor on the gas pump, which read that he had spent $95.35 on gas. His credit card couldn't take much more, and he gave a sigh as he took his receipt and balled it up, throwing it into the nearby trash can. He hopped into his vehicle, and rolled well away from the pump before finally starting the vehicle up.
1700, Myers Park
The Greene family had lived in the affluent Myers Park suburb for as long as anyone could remember, given that Willie's parents were rich, affluent citizens of the city. As Cal drove down the road, he looked around at the large homes, well-groomed environment, and expensive cars, vividly remembering how he and the group would raise all sorts of Cain for the residents, whether it involve rolling houses with toilet paper or bashing mailboxes while barreling down the road in the ancient Town Car. Cal cracked a smile as he remembered his youth, and he wondered if anyone from the old group would be attending the viewing. He had seen Bran a few times in recent years, most notably during the night of the election in '12, when he, Willie, and several of the others had shown up to support the candidate. He hadn't seen Angela since the past year, when he arrested one of her co-workers in Johannesburg, when the contractor had fled prosecution in the US for soliciting a murder. He hadn't seen Callum, Manny, or Lilly since their high school reunion in '11. He hoped that the whole group would be there, and he was thankful that no one really knew that he was there the day Willie was killed.
As he turned onto Willie's street, he was almost immediately stopped by a police officer, who was standing out in the middle of the road to direct traffic. The street was absolutely packed with cars, belonging to friends, family, and others who had wished to express their condolences and say good bye to Willie. At both ends of the street, officers were assisting the mourners with parking. There were throngs of mourners inside and outside of the large home that the Greene family resided in, and Cal wondered how they could be outside in the 89-degree heat of the afternoon. Soon, the officer motioned for Cal to park at the curb, and the DSS agent nodded. He quickly parked his car and climbed out, looking over at the Greene house. His heart was beating rapidly, as he became almost overwhelmed with guilt. No one knew that he had anything to do with Willie's death, but he couldn't help but feel staggering pangs of guilt. He felt responsible for his friend's death, and now he had to not only face Willie's parents and offer his condolences, but he had to come into contact with Willie in the worst possible way.
With a bottle of Dewar's Blue Label Scotch Whiskey in his right hand, he strode towards the front door. Sweat was beginning to run down his face, from his own nervous attitude rather than from the heat. As he approached the front door, everything around him became a blur as his eyes focused on the door that he had opened so many times before. He didn't know if any of the mourners outside were trying to talk to him, but all of his focus was on the impending scene. His right hand made contact with the handle of the door, and he slowly opened it as a breeze of cool air hit him, though it did nothing to curb his trance. His eyes scanned the room, and they immediately singled out the coffin sitting in a parlor connected to the living room. The velvet-lined coffin was positioned at an angle, and inside sat the lifeless body of Willie. The mortician was truly an artist, for it looked as though Willie was simply sleeping, wearing a well-tailored black suit with an American flag pin on the lapel. The parlor was practically a shrine in memory of Willie, as wreathes, pictures of Willie, and other memorabilia commemorating his life adorned the room.
Cal's heart skipped a beat, and he remained frozen in place, his eyes glued to Willie. His face was devoid of emotion, but beneath this exterior was the eruption of emotion, barely bridled by Cal's exterior. His eyes did not see Willie; they saw the crowded market in Mogadishu, with a group of militants standing guard over several hooded hostages, and Willie standing out in front of him, speaking to the militants. He could vividly see one of the contractors pushing a handcuffed prisoner in front of the diplomat, just as an outside force brought him back to reality.
A hand touched Cal's shoulder, and while such a sudden gesture would quite possibly merit a violent reaction, he was familiar with the grip on his shoulder. He gasped silently, and slowly turned his head to see a man dressed in a Char-Meck Police Dress Uniform. He knew this man well; he was Lewis, Cal's father and a Captain in the Char-Meck PD. They say that parents have an innate sense of when their children are troubled, and Lewis could quickly see that his son was deeply affected by the scene before him. His grip grew firm, and he led his son away from the parlor, outside of the house to the patio overlooking the large pool that had been the site of many a cookout during his youth. Upon exiting the house, Cal felt pressure lift from his body, and he took a deep breath before he embraced his father in a tight hug, fighting back tears.
"Hey, I don't want a hug, only the scotch," Lewis said, which induced a chuckle from his son, who pulled back from the embrace as he offered the bottle to the father.
"Thanks back there, Dad," Cal said. "It's not easy seeing him like that, in this house."
"It's never easy when you have to bury a childhood friend, son," Lewis said. "You look like shit right now, you know?"
Cal looked away from his father, and saw his reflection in a nearby window. Indeed, his face was drenched in sweat, and his hair was becoming affected by the perspiration. He wiped the sweat from his face with his hand, before his father offered him a rag. He took the item and finished the job, before taking another deep breath as he turned towards a table that bore refreshments.
"I need a drink," he said. "It hasn't been a good day."
Cal reached into the large ice-filled bin on the table that contained a number of expensive beers, highlighting the Greene family's wealth. He grabbed a cold bottle of Imperial Stout, and quickly opened it before taking a long swig of the beverage. Lewis raised an eyebrow at his boy, who was gulping down the beverage.
"The last thing you need is to get trashed here," Lewis admitted. "Don't drink too much of that stout."
Cal stopped drinking the beer, and looked towards his father, giving a smirk as his eyes moved down to view the label on the bottle.
"Dad, it takes a lot of beer to get..." Cal said, trailing off at the end as he noticed that the beverage had a 9% alcohol content, which meant that knocking back a bunch of stout would be a bad call of judgement. "Holy shit, 9%?"
"Yes, son," Lewis said. "So don't drink too much."
"Says the guy who only wanted to take my scotch," Cal retorted.
"If you were 20 years younger and you had said that, I would have popped the shit outta you for saying that," Lewis said, giving a smirk at his son's comment.
The father and son began to laugh for a few moments. Cal loved his parents, especially his father. As a boy, Lewis had introduced his son to the outdoors, and to this day, Cal enjoyed hiking, hunting, and pretty much anything involving the outdoors. Lewis also had a sense of humor, unique for someone in charge of Char-Meck's Violent Crimes Division. The two began to discuss things, though Cal made sure not to tell his own father of his involvement in Willie's death. It was at that moment that he realized that he needed to say goodbye to his friend.
"Hey Dad, I've gotta go back in there," Cal admitted. "I have to talk to Willie, you know?"
"I know," Lewis said, giving his son a warm smile and a pat on the back.
Cal gave a nod, and made his way back inside. His head was clearer, and he paid more attention to the living room. It was of a modern suburban design - large, with a number of expensive furniture items. The space, and the kitchen were absolutely crowded with mourners from all over. City and state politicians, government officials, city officials, college professors, and all other sorts of affluent citizens were in attendance. Children played with one another amid the conversing groups of adults, largely unaware of any true significance that the event holds. Pictures lined the walls, telling of a range of stories involving the adventures of the Greene family, Willie especially. As Cal waded through the crowd, he noticed Willie's parents speaking with his own mother, Alice. His parents and Willie's parents were inseparable friends, going all the way back to the first few days that the Calhoun family had spent in the US. Saying goodbye to one's first real friend was a daunting task, especially for Cal.
He soon found himself face to face with his old friend, staring at the well-dressed corpse before him. Taking a sip of his beer, Cal stepped forward, and took a deep breath, before whispering silently to his friend's body.
"Willie...this is all my fault. I was in charge of security that day, we should have seen this coming. Now, your blood is on my heads. The blood of the first friend that I ever had. My God...neither of us thought it'd go down like this...
Fighting back his brain's orders to collapse in pure despair, Cal had to leave the room immediately. He pulled away from Willie's coffin, and strode quickly into the kitchen, where he gave a breath of relief and decided to take another sip of his beer before he had to speak to Willie's parents.
More people were due to show up, and Cal was already about to break down.
