Free Presidential Shift by C. G. Cooper Page A

Fatboy Harley Davidson. He’d polished his baby up the night before.
    The explosion was close. He knew the area well. He’d lived in Orange Beach for years and had either ridden or stumbled through most of its roadways and byways. The amphitheater was ten blocks from his one bedroom condo.
    He’d heard about the first lady’s visit, as had anyone who read or watched the news in the off-season beach town. Not that he cared other than to grumble about the increased traffic on the normally barren streets. A familiar prickle flitted up his neck. It had never failed to warn him of danger.
    More curious than concerned, Maynor slipped on his black leather riding vest with Leathernecks U.S.M.C and an eagle, globe and anchor emblazened in Marine Corps red and yellow on the back, pocketed his Colt 1911 and slipped the sheathed Kabar into the back of his waistband.
    A minute later, his motorcycle rumbled to life, and Maynor headed toward the mayhem.
    +++
    Cal was lucky to have been on the opposite side of the stage. Still, he was thrown back by the force of the explosion. Ears ringing, heart pounding, the Marine moved toward the chaos. Blood and body parts littered the stage. He’d seen it before, but the absolute devastation of human life sickened him. However, unlike most people, it angered him to action.
    He pushed past three of the four Hollywood heavyweights who stood with gore-splattered faces, staring down at their companion, the soul singer, whose head sat split in half by a piece of debris. Cal jumped off the stage nearly slipping on what looked like a woman’s bloody stump of a hand.
    The epicenter of the blast was clear. Screaming and moaning concert-goers crawled in no general direction. Cal was joined by two Secret Service agents, who were similarly deafened by the blast.
    “Is the first lady safe?” Cal bellowed.
    Both of the agents nodded like robots, their normally stoic faces wide-eyed. It had happened on their watch, again. Cal could read the implications in their look.
    “Where is she?” Cal asked.
    One of the suited agents pointed over his shoulder. “They took her away in the helo.”
    Good , thought Cal. One less thing to worry about.
    “Hey!” Cal had to yell again to get their attention. Their heads snapped around. “Start triaging the wounded, I’ll…” Just then he felt a buzzing in his pocket. He pulled out his cell phone. It was Daniel.
    “Yeah?” he answered.
    He couldn’t hear a damn thing, so instead he said, “Text it to me, Briggs. My ears are shit right now.”
    Turning back to the agents, Cal moved to help a woman who’d lost both arms and was silently screaming in pain. “Dammit,” mumbled Cal.
    +++
    Daniel couldn’t text. He was on the heels of the guy he’d followed from the arena, and who had jammed into a sprint after the explosion. At least Cal was safe. He trusted his boss and instead focused on running faster. The guy had a good lead. Daniel, as was his fashion, said a silent prayer that his abilities not fail.
    Suddenly, out of the corner of his peripheral vision, Daniel’s prayer was answered. A motorcycle roared around the corner and a smile spread across Daniel’s face at the sight of the Marine emblem on the rider’s jacket.
    “Marine!” he yelled at the rider, who quickly caught up to Daniel.
    “Need a ride?” said the rider, as he pulled up alongside the sprinting sniper.
    Daniel nodded and jumped onto the back of the Harley, shaking his head. Send in the Marines , he thought, saying thanks to the Almighty once again.
    +++
    Steve Stricklin saw Cal’s friend sneak out of the concert. On a hunch, he followed at a safe distance. Minutes later, the explosion had rocked the surrounding area. Stricklin looked back, contemplating going to help, but thought better of it. He didn’t want anything to do with another attack. Too much mess. Too much paperwork. Stricklin didn’t have the strongest stomach. He’d once wretched at the sight of two decapitated Iraqi