Slippery Surfaces

“The Refiner’s instructions in this case are clear, I think.” The speaker, who went by the name ‘Zha’, was a small man with thinning black hair and a petite face. He was one of the Refiner’s direct lines of contact with the rest of ROZ.

“He says to use the weaknesses already around us and strike at them, prying the holes further apart,” Zha continued, speaking in his soft, almost bland accent that gave very little emphasis to one syllable over another. “We have seen great strife here, and this can be turned for the good of all people.”

Mitch stifled a yawn. Why did all of these pre-task briefings turn into sermons?

“Eyrie, you may take it from here,” Zha said, bowing slightly to the middle aged woman standing nearby. She strode forward, walking confidently on thin stilettoes that increased her height by half a foot. Her long blond hair swished back and forth across her back in a ponytail. She was quite attractive, but no one had made a move on her since that first meeting when she had broken a man’s jaw for whistling at her.

“Thank you, Zha,” she said brusquely. “Now, this area has seen quite a bit of unrest recently, with the recent school shooting and then later the arrest of several black teenagers. Tensions are high between law enforcement and the public already, and people don’t feel entirely secure at school. These are two points on which we are going to strike simultaneously.”

Mitch nodded along. Eyrie, unlike Zha, liked to get straight to the point.

***

“False trail, Manson,” Hart said, barely pushing the door open before beginning to speak. She was about to continue when she saw that someone else was already in the small office with the lead Agent.

Manson cleared his throat. “Hello, Hart. Good morning to you as well.”

“Yeah, sure. Howd’ya do and all that. Who’s this?” She eyed the stranger, a boy of no more than twenty years, with big blue eyes and a face as fresh as a newborn’s.

“This is our newest member, just assigned to us from training HQ. Jeremy, meet Agent Phoebe Hart.” Manson gestured.

Hart strode forward and stuck out her hand. Jeremy held out his own. His grip was firm and his smile confident, despite his youth.

“Welcome to the All Government Entity for Negating Terrorism, Jeremy,” she said. Then she turned back to Manson. “It wasn’t the ROZ. Just a really messed up kid with family problems and drug problems to compound them.”

Manson nodded. Jeremy, for his part, did well pretending not to be totally lost.

“Well, it was a good lead anyway, Hart. Keep your eyes open.”

She nodded, turned, then paused, looking over her shoulder. “It’s going to happen soon,” she said softly.

Manson cocked an eyebrow. “How can you be so sure?”

She glanced out the window, eyes distant. “Because anger and fear are running high, sir. That’s always when they strike. When we’re weakest.”

***

George whistled softly to himself as he sloshed the mop around in the brown water before making another pass across the floor. Class was in session, leaving him virtually alone save for the occasional student carrying messages from the office or using the restroom.

He heard a yelp from the hall around the corner where he had just finished mopping. Stepping carefully, he went to investigate. A girl, probably a sophomore or junior, was sitting in a very undignified manner, a grimace on her face.

“Are you all right, miss?” George asked, stepping over and helping her to her feet.

She eyed the mop in his other hand. “The floor’s wet,” she said pointedly. “I slipped.”

He cocked his head. “The sign warned you…” His hand fell back to his side. He had started to point towards the ‘wet floor’ sign he had set up, only to remember that he hadn’t set it up. He hadn’t been able to get the darned thing to unfold, so he had simply left it in the closet, deciding it was unlikely very many people would be walking on the floor anyway.

He cleared his throat. “Er, yes, well. Off you go to class, then.” He tried to sound authoritative. The girl blatantly rolled her eyes and stomped-carefully-past him. He shook his head. That hadn’t been very civil.

He finished mopping and then checked his watch. Lunchtime, finally! He hurriedly put all his equipment away and hurried out to his car, where a whole loaf of one-dollar French bread from Walmart was waiting for him.

***

Agent Hart scrolled through her news feed, listening with one ear to the police radio, and occasionally glanced up to scan her surroundings. She took a sip of her Gatorade, more to keep herself awake than anything. Other people used coffee and energy drinks, but she thought both tasted terrible and the smell of coffee made her gag. Besides, she didn’t want to destroy her body’s natural ability to stay awake by making it dependent on external sources.

Her mind started to drift again, lost in a half-dream, the radio noise becoming little more than a distant hum. She snapped awake as her head drooped and she spilled Gatorade onto her pants.

“Shoot,” she muttered. She’d be awake for over thirty hours now, hunting for a lead on ROZ. She’d found very little in the way of solid information. Still, she knew ROZ and how they functioned. That at least gave her an idea where to look.

ROZ liked to kick you when you were down. Ten years back, when Hart had been in training for AGENT, ROZ had spread false evidence of corruption within the Presidency of the US. At the time, people and media sources had already begun spreading their less than favorable opinions towards a recent move made by the President. ROZ used the unrest to create an uproar, one that was nearly catastrophic for the stability of the US government. AGENT was barely able to discredit the false evidence before several states seceded.

Furthermore, ROZ preferred anonymity. Unlike many other terrorist organizations, they worked to keep themselves from the public eye as much as possible. Not even their name was known by the common folk. ROZ tried to pin the blame for their attacks on governmental leaders, law enforcement, big corporations, etc, trying to discredit and tear down any organized authority and structure.

Currently, Hart was doggedly searching for weak areas that would be ideal for ROZ’s attacks. There were thousands of possibilities, of course, but she had narrowed her options down by focusing on the larger population centers with big news outlets. ROZ liked it when their work was sensationalized.

So, Hart found herself sitting in her little Honda outside a McDonalds in Philadelphia. Recently, a senior named Madden Harrel had entered a high school with a loaded pistol, injuring three students and killing one. When the police arrived, they had been forced to shoot the student who refused to put down the gun. Madden’s parents were claiming that their son had been suffering from serious mental illness and the side effects of pain medications, and that the police had only shot him because he was black. This, of course, opened a whole new can of worms. Now, school security, racism, and law enforcement were all at the forefront of public attention, and the tension was only building.

Hart tapped a finger against her leg thoughtfully, only to be reminded of the sticky wet liquid soaking into her pants. She let out an irritated breath, then decided to go inside the McDonalds to use the bathroom sink and paper towels to clean it off.

As she went, she continued to ponder. The ROZ would want to make a hard, efficient hit in this area, effectively shoving the people from tension to open conflict or panic. That likely meant another school shooting, probably involving some sort of big failing or mistake on the part of the police involved. That meant ROZ likely had someone on the inside, posing as a police officer.

She growled in annoyance as the paper towel left a bunch of little white pieces all over her black pants. She tried to brush them off, but the fabric was too wet so they just bunched up and spread around. Giving up, she walked back out to her car.

She should check into the local law enforcement agencies and look into any new arrivals. It was a start, at least.

***

George finished half of his loaf of bread, leaving the rest for lunch tomorrow. He made his way back to the front doors, reaching for his key card. It wasn’t there. He checked his pockets. Frowning, he realized he had put it, along with his walkie-talkie, in the janitor closet with his vest and cleaning supplies.

He sighed. After the school shooting so nearby, the principal wasn’t taking any chances with security. She made sure the building was locked up tight, and no one was allowed in during school hours without an access card. The only time the doors were unlocked was an hour before and after school, and a security guard was posted at each door during that time.

Hands on hips, George glanced around, looking for a solution. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but he was sure looking around would spark his imagination.

Then he saw Officer Davey, over in his police car. George hurried over to him, waving. The officer was clearly preparing to leave, his engine already running, but he popped his head out of the car window when he noticed George.

“George?” Davey asked. “What seems to be the problem?”

George took a moment to catch his breath. “I left my key card inside, it seems. Would you mind terribly if I borrowed you for a moment to let me in?”

Davey chuckled, shaking his head. “George, you would forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders.”

“I didn’t forget it,” George protested. “I just left it inside. I know exactly where it is.”

Davey glanced at his watch, then shrugged. “Well, I suppose I’ll still have time to make it home and grab a bite to eat. Mrs. Davey will be sore if I miss lunch again.”

He opened the door, forcing George to step back quickly to avoid getting hit, and pushed himself out with a grunt. Davey was a stout fellow, with a quickly receding hairline. But George knew that he could intimidate anyone with that special glare of his. It helped that he was nearly seven feet tall, George supposed, craning his neck to meet the eyes of the now standing officer.

“Much obliged,” George said, taking another step back so that he wouldn’t have to crane his neck so far.

“Well, come along then,” Davey said.

***

The plan was in motion. The kid was ready and in place, and Mitch was in uniform. He quite liked the feeling of riding shotgun in a police car. It made him feel official and important, and not a little devious and clever.

He checked his watch. The call should be coming in right about…

A voice crackled over the radio. “A call came in of a suspicious figure near Philly High School. Suspected to be carrying a gun.”

Mitch immediately answered the call. “This is Mitch and Jerome. We can be there in 5.”

“10-4, officer.”

Jerome was already turning the vehicle, heading for the school.

The call was fake, of course. It had been broadcast on the police radio station, but hadn’t been sent from dispatch. Eyrie had made the call, right on time.

They reached the school and Mitch slipped out of the car, moving with false caution, eyes sweeping side to side. Jerome followed suit, hand ready to pull out his gun or taser, depending on the situation.

They reached the building just in time to hear the alarm bells begin, signaling the start of a lock-down.

***

Hart immediately responded to the call on the police radio, demanding backup from AGENT and then speeding like a psychopath towards the school. This was it. She knew it, deep down.

***

Oscar wasn’t sure what he had gotten himself into. He only knew that the ugly guy with the big gun had promised him a lot of money if he played along, and a hole in his head if he didn’t.

So here he was, holding a loaded revolver in an unsteady hand, pointing it at the classroom of cowering students. He heard the alarms ringing around him, and he almost lost his nerve. But he had been promised that backup would come and get him out, and he wouldn’t actually have to shoot anyone.

***

George and Davey had just entered the building when the alarm started ringing.

“Fire!” George exclaimed.

Davey cursed under his breath. “No, lock-down.”

Oh, if that was all.

Wait.

“Stay with me and keep your head down,” Davey ordered, pulling his duty weapon from his belt and holding it with the barrel downward.

“Aren’t you supposed to hold that up by your head?” George asked. He’d seen plenty of cop shows.

Davey ignored him, running forward in a quick, low crouch. George tried to follow the movement, and felt quite impressive and sneaky.

At the nearest door, Davey shoved George inside. “Stay here,” he ordered, then left.

George watched him go for a moment, shrugged, and went to sit with the other students in the corner of the room.

***

Mitch made his way through the empty hallways towards the designated room, where his little pawn would be standing ready. He smirked inwardly. The stupid kid had actually believed him when he’d promised to pay him. The only payment the fool would get was a mouthful of lead.

Mitch froze in place as he reached the classroom. The door was flung open wide, and an enormous man had a young black man with his face against a desk, snapping handcuffs onto his wrists.

Mitch felt his mouth drop open. Jerome stepped up beside him, relaxing visibly. “Well, looks like the security here has it under control,” he said, clapping Mitch on the back in a friendly manner.

Mitch could only gape. The security officer was supposed to be gone. He had been assured as much. The man left for lunch at the exact same time every day, and his partner was always ten minutes late in returning from lunch, leaving a ten minute gap in security.

Yet here the officer was, proffering the whimpering kid for Jerome to take into custody.

The kid looked up and saw Mitch. “He’s the one that put me up to it!” he screaming suddenly, jerked as if trying to point to Mitch. “He told me to do it!” He continued to rail.

Both officers looked at Mitch, at first confused, and then suspicious.

Mitch did the only logical thing. He ran.

***

Hart arrived in time to see a man in uniform fleeing the building like a rabbit running from a fox. She smiled, hearing the call for help catching a ‘rogue cop’ over the police radio. She was only too happy to oblige.

Later, after catching the fake officer, she interrogated the student who had been taken into custody. As far as she could tell, the student’s story checked out, and gave her pretty strong evidence that the fake officer was a member of ROZ. The kid and his family had to go into witness protection, but it was probably for the best. He wouldn’t be accepted back at a school where he had openly threatened his peers with a loaded gun.

***

“We’ve had five different calls from parents, complaining that their students have been hurt in some way slipping on a wet floor because there was no warning sign put up.”

George sat, hands clasped in front of him, nodding gravely.

Principal Sheela sighed. “I’ve talked to you about this three times, George. I’ve told you that you have to put the sign up.”

He nodded again. “I’m deeply sorry for the injury I have caused,” he said, infusing his voice with as much solemnity as he could muster.

She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, George. You’re a good man and a hard worker. But I’m afraid that we will have to let you go.”

He sat up a little straighter, surprised. Then he smiled brightly. She looked confused at his response.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to hold back tears of gratitude.

Her brow creased in confusion. “Oh, well, um…Did you…not enjoy working here?”

He shook his head quickly to alleviate her concerns. It was just that-well, they had ‘let him go’. Which he was fairly certain was not the same thing as being fired.