"That's right. Just through that area. It's essential that Miss Ramone reach the ambassador's home. We’ll keep in touch,” informed the dispatcher. With that, Frink heard a click and hung up. He contacted Agent Johnson via his voice transmitter.
“Sir, headquarters just called. They need you to act as an escort to a diplomat. I’ll relay the message,” Frink said before replaying the recorded phone conversation.
***
After hearing the message, Special Agent Mark Johnson came close to grimacing. He certainly knew the area of town they’d have to traverse. Terrorist activities were abound there. His team had been called to the western part of the South Side on numerous occasions to deal with insurgents and extremists.
Despite these risks, the city’s local Iraqi ambassador had decided to live in that area of town in order to “Inspire the locals to obey the laws of this country.” But that guy had his own bodyguards.
Miss Ramone had recently decided to address this ambassador in person. That required her to see the guy on his home turf. Since Miss Ramone was a highly valued diplomat and a damned fine public speaker, the agency decided to place her under protection (albeit a one-man-squad sort of protection). Agent Johnson was informed that Miss Ramone could defend herself and he’d mainly be there to carry baggage.
The agent left the headquarters and drove to the rendevous point. She was already waiting. Johnson exited the car.
“Miss Ramone,” he began to say, “You’ll have to come with me.”
“No,” she replied, “We’re not taking your car. Yours looks too much like a federal agent’s car.”
“My vehicle is a federal agent’s. We will take yours, then.”
“We’re taking the bus, Mr. Stiff. This guy prizes humility. And we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.” Miss Ramone nearly always convinced her opponents that she was right in arguments.
Highly unorthodox, Mark thought. But Miss Ramone does raise valid points. “The Route Fifty-Five - Southridge, then?”
Miss Ramone nodded and the two left for the bus stop. By the time they reached the stop, Miss Ramone was nearing hypothermia.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” Miss Ramone remarked. Winters had recently become unbearable in Milwaukee. Just taking the bus became a huge sacrifice for anyone.
“Hold on,” Agent Johnson said quietly. “We’ll be warm again soon enough.”
Eventually, the bus came up and they hopped on. The large vehicle crawled slowly towards their destination and, after about two miles, passed the mosque marking the entrance of the western South Side.
***
The assassin loaded his weapon. Soon, the bus came into his line of sight. He fired two shots at the driver. Both hit their mark. The shady man grinned and signaled to the others.
***
The vehicle spun out of control. Mark and Miss Ramone were thrown to one side as it swerved into a streetlight and came to a halt. Fortunately, the bus was mostly empty.
“Stay here!” Agent Johnson ordered, drawing his pre-loaded Berreta ‘92. He forced open the rear door and stepped out. He scanned the area, trying to determine the origin of the shots. Suddenly, a group of screaming, robed men came out of side streets and alleyways firing automatics into the air.
" That's stereotypical!" Miss Ramone yelled out the window. Johnson signaled for her to take cover. The few pedestrians standing around ducked or ran and any cars in the vicinity sped off. Johnson returned to the bus and found Miss Ramone.
“We have to go,” he said bluntly yet calmly. Suddenly, streams of bullets hit the windows of the bus, shattering them. “Everybody get down!” Johnson yelled.
“What the hell is going on?” Miss Ramone inquired over the gunshots.
Agent Johnson stood up, fired several times, and ducked back down. “They’ve surrounded us. I don’t have enough rounds to so much as hold them at bay. Our highest chance of survival is getting into an alley.”
Johnson led Miss Ramone through the front exit, firing at a terrorist.
Suddenly, the diplomat next to the agent withdrew a makeshift knife.
“What is that?” the agent asked.
“It’s my shank, son!” the diplomat next to him replied.
Mark glanced around and dived at an alley, followed closely by Miss Ramone. He failed to account for the terrorist already in the alley. Luckily the insurgent didn’t notice him until Johnson accidentally bumped into the robed man. Johnson tried to aim and fire his gun, but its ammunition had been expended.
The insurgent aimed his weapon at the agent, let out a warcry, and fell face forward. A makeshift knife was in his back and Miss Ramone was standing triumphantly above him.
“Or we could do it that way,” Agent Johnson mumbled. Suddenly, more shots rang out from behind him. He picked up the dead rebel’s weapon and fired a stream of bullets at a grouping of insurgents.
Hiding behind a trash can, Miss Ramone saw the agent dodge every bullet fired at him. Every bullet. “That’s impossible,” she murmured.
One by one, the terrorists fell or fled. Soon enough, sirens could be heard and squad cars zoomed in on the scene. After a brief shootout between the police and the insurgents, the ordeal was over.
After emptying the automatic, Agent Johnson turned and said to the diplomat, “I apologize if you missed your meeting with the ambassador.” With that, he turned and walked back towards the crowd of running police and paramedics.
That crazy mofo, thought Miss Ramone.
***
“I have it recorded right here!” Agent Frink exclaimed.
“So, what group of misled crazies do you think led that assault?" Frink asked Johnson as he sipped his water.
"The forensics team said the driver was shot by a professional marksman," Mark answered as he laid the dumbell down.
"Marksman, eh?" Frink said contemplatively. "I didn't know you killed innocent civilians, Mark>" Frink emphasized the last word.
Johnson rapidly snatched Frink water bottle and emptied it out in the basement sink. The quick agent, always in his suit, walked calmly back upstairs.
Frink cursed at his own ineptitude.
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