Free Ghost Watch by David Rollins

hidden behind dark sunglasses. From Arlen’s briefing notes, I knew that the black guy was Cy Cassidy, a massive human being two pick handles across the chest with arms as black and thick as a couple of truck tires. His buddy, Mike West, was white and more reasonably proportioned – maybe two hundred and ten pounds, a shade under six feet tall, with dark hair and serious acne scars.
    Behind them was a black man who towered over everyone. He was at least six foot six and fast-food-addict soft, the International House of Pancakes written all over his three-hundred-plus pounds. He wore loose basketball gear, several layers of t-shirts from a number of eastern conference teams, a fat gold chain around his neck, a bowler hat on his head, and a sneer on his lips. He was followed by Twenny Fo, rodent thin and of medium height, wearing a blue Adidas training suit, sunglasses with small, round red-tinted lenses, and a white Nike baseball cap with gold pinstripes. He spat the toothpick he was chewing over the stair railing. Behind the rapper was a medium-sized version of the behemoth with the bowler hat, all round shoulders and girth, and a big fan of the Denver Nuggets if the logos plastering his clothing were any indication. The guys waved at the gathering in a way that reminded me of the Queen of England.
    Twenny Fo’s third and final ‘blood’ had a goatee on his chin and looked part black and part Hispanic, his hair tightly braided into roughly parallel rows across his head. He wore a combination of green and gray Everlast gear and a tattoo of a pit bull was on his neck. His body was compact and hard, and he walked like a street fighter, a threat in every step. He came down the stairs, lighting a cigarette.
    Bringing up the rear was Captain Duke Ryder, short, slightly stooped and a little overweight, and Lex Rutherford, the blond Brit on loan from the SAS, who reminded me of a baby-faced choirboy.
    Ryder caught my eye and tipped a finger to his brow in greeting, which I returned. Then he gestured behind him with a tilt of his head and gave me the thumbs-up sign. I took that to mean that the staging personnel and all the dancers mentioned in Arlen’s briefing notes were still on the plane and doing okay. The PSOs would have given them the standard operating procedure – wait on board until the principals were secured inside the terminal, after which they too would be escorted to the safety zone.
    A traffic jam was forming at the base of the stairs. Travis steered Leila and her people away to make room for Twenny Fo’s crowd.
    ‘Ah, Mr Twenny Fo,’ said the president. ‘How wonderful it is to meet you.’
    ‘Is good to be here, you know,’ said the rapper. The two men shook hands.
    ‘Allow me to present my wife, Margaret.’
    ‘All right,’ said Twenny, leaning forward to take her hand.
    The muscles of the first lady’s face were locked in a smile that mimicked a bout of tetanus. She probably didn’t speak English, not that it would’ve helped her much if she did, Twenny’s Baltimore patois being tricky to grasp even for English speakers.
    ‘These my associates, yo,’ Twenny continued economically. ‘Boink – head security.’
    Mr IHOP gave them a nod.
    ‘This here’s Snatch, my bidness manager. An’ Peanut, who just is. Not his fault – you feel me?’
    More nods.
    Boink, Peanut, Snatch – Larry, Mo, Curly.
    Travis appeared at my shoulder, tall and gangly, with sharp features and the type of pale freckly skin that sprouts melanomas at age forty.
    ‘Special Agent Cooper,’ he said. ‘It is Major Cooper, isn’t it?’ He leaned forward and read my name tape.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, standing vaguely at attention.
    ‘Oh, don’t do that. Too much formality for a rock concert. I’m pleased you could join us. I thought our wires would get crossed and they’d send you to the wrong place or something.’
    He obviously worked for the same outfit I did. ‘How was the flight over, sir?’
    ‘Call me