Moments later, the other mourners claimed their seats.
Two officers removed the flag from the coffin. After folding the American symbol of freedom in half—twice, lengthwise—the men made thirteen folds, creating the shape of a triangle. Only the flag’s blue field and white stars were visible. One officer handed the standard to the Police Chief.
The Chief approached Devlin, went to one knee, and held the patriotic emblem in front of her. “On behalf of the...”
Gaping at the small stars, hearing nothing after the man’s first four words, her eyes shedding tears, she accepted the gesture of gratitude.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 2
Mom Vibe
Two years later...
1 may—8:49 p.m.
colonial heights, virginia
Normally busy during the day, this intersection in Colonial Heights became desolate at night. A couple of low-rent, high-rise housing structures—across the street from each other—took up two corners while an all-night liquor store and a check-cashing establishment sat on the remaining two.
The traffic signal faithfully did its job, cycling from green to yellow to red, even though very few cars passed beneath. People who knew the area and valued their lives found alternate routes to get to their destination.
Those who were forced to call this area home, due to poverty, low-paying jobs, a single income, or some other factor, stayed inside behind door locks, door chains, deadbolts, bars on the windows, and whatever other security devices they could afford to employ.
The young, the strong, the fearless made this stretch of Virginia their playground, many of them major contributors to the criminal activities—illegal drugs, prostitution, gambling—plaguing the community. Drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, men loitered, waiting to pounce on anyone who foolishly entered this district. In short skirts, high heels, and revealing tops, their hair done up, women patrolled the sidewalks looking for their next twenty-dollar ‘John.’
Its muffler rumbling, an older model, rusted out, four-door Chevy stopped at the curb near one of the housing units. The driver leaned over the console and rolled down the passenger window. An overhead streetlight lit up his gaunt cheeks, dark goatee, and bushy eyebrows.
A woman wearing a black leather jacket, blue-and-white-striped miniskirt, black knee boots, and black fishnet stockings sauntered up to the car.
Eyeing her attire and athletic figure, he smiled, “Hey there,” and gunned the engine a couple times, partly to impress her, but mostly to keep the car from stalling.
The five-ten woman, easily six foot tall in her high-heeled boots, bent over and leaned on the Chevy’s passenger door. “What can I do for you?” She quickly scanned both ends of the street.
“Well, that depends.” The man stroked his goatee while admiring her looks—straight, medium-length raven black hair; dark brown eyes; petite, slim nose; full lips; slender lines along her jaw. “What’s the going rate?”
“Fifty. Anything out of the ordinary will cost you extra.”
“Kind of high, isn’t it?”
“I’m new here...and fresher than the competition.” Looking away, the woman lifted a shoulder. “Take it or leave it.”
Goatee gave her another once-over. “But you’re also older and...”
She flicked her eyes his way.
“...you’ve,” he twirled a finger at her, “got this whole...mom vibe going on.”
The woman pivoted her head toward him.
“But,” he slowly nodded at the cleavage protruding from between her jacket’s lapels, “I like it.”
A sleek, red Cadillac convertible—top down, music blasting into the open air—rolled by and parked two spaces ahead of the rusted Chevy. Four Latino men in jeans and muscle shirts hopped out and swaggered toward the apartment building. Each man exchanged hand slaps and chest bumps with others he knew.
The woman turned her attention toward the scene.
Afraid of losing her, Goatee dug out a fifty-dollar bill and dropped the note onto the passenger seat. “There’s your fifty.” He added a ‘Jackson’ along with demands for additional sex acts.
Squinting at the four Latinos, she watched them walk through the front door of the structure.
“So what do you say? That’s seventy bucks.”
“Yeah,” fishing around inside her jacket, “you’re not getting any of those things from me,” she faced him and held out a bi-fold.
He glimpsed her badge—a five-pointed, silver star inside a silver circle—before shutting his eyes and letting out a low groan.
“United States Deputy Marshal.” She stowed the credentials. “Since I don’t have time to bust you, you should consider this your lucky day.” She smacked the door twice and jerked her thumb. “Beat it, scumbag.”
Not giving the federal agent the chance to change her mind, the man spun the steering wheel and stepped on the gas pedal. Its muffler spewing noise pollution, the Chevy peeled away from the curb.
The woman made her way toward the apartment building’s front door. “This is Devlin. I have a visual on Mendoza. All tac teams have a ‘go.’ I repeat...all teams move in!”
Moments later, two black SUVs squealed around the corner and skidded to a halt, blocking the Cadillac’s escape. Eight doors flew open, and eight men rushed toward Devlin; seven were outfitted with tactical gear. The eighth man was dressed in blue jeans and a dark-colored windbreaker, POLICE U.S. MARSHAL emblazoned on the jacket. He carried a bulletproof vest.
Devlin turned away from the assaulters and held her arms straight out behind her.
The man in jeans threaded the vest’s two openings up her arms and over her shoulders.
“Thanks, Hawk.” She drew a forty-five caliber Colt 1911 handgun from a hip holster under her leather jacket before securing the newly added protective garment.
Blake Hawkins—six foot tall, African-American, closely cropped dark hair, chiseled jaw, and muscular frame—drew his Glock 22. “Fifty bucks, huh?”
The two of them hurried toward the building.
“I thought that was a good price.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. You think my rates are steep?”
He shook his head, “Not at all,” before grabbing the front door’s vertical handle. “In fact they might be low for an,” pulling open the glass entry point, he hesitated, “older woman with a mom vibe going on.”
Hearing
