Drone Command

FIFTY-FOUR

Pearce!”

The African-American jail guard glowered at Troy through the cell door. Standing six-foot-seven and carrying three hundred pounds of sculpted muscle on his wide frame, he was as intimidating as he was large.

Troy looked up at the sound of his name. He was seated on a steel bench in the overnight tank for drunks, johns, and other less dangerous miscreants. He had no shirt, only athletic shorts, jailhouse slippers, and a black eye.

Keys rattled in the lock and a massive black hand guided Troy by the arm, cuffed and shuffling toward outtake processing.

Will was at the front desk signing papers. A paper bag by his elbow.

The guard unlocked Troy’s cuffs. “Don’t come back, kid.”

“Thanks,” Troy said.

Will nodded his thanks to the desk officer and tossed the paper bag at Troy. He opened it. A hooded Stanford sweatshirt.

“We gotta roll,” Will said, turning for the exit. Troy followed suit, yanking on the hoodie.

The drab downtown jail facility was an unremarkable building on the outside. The kaleidoscope of broken people inside provided the color.

Will pushed open the glass door and dashed for the parking lot, Troy on his heels.

“What’s the hurry?” Troy asked.

“You kidding me?”

“Oh, shit.”

“‘Oh, shit’ is right. Your thesis defense is in an hour. It’ll take an hour and twenty to get to Encina Hall.”

Will unlocked the doors to his Porsche 911 and they both fell in.

“I can’t go like this. I need to change, take a shower.”

The Porsche engine roared to life and Will turned around to back out. “I’ve got your slacks and sport coat under the hood, along with a shirt, tie, and shoes. No point in looking like a complete slob.”

Troy smelled his underarm. His nose crunched. “Don’t suppose you have a shower under there?”

“There’s a bottle of Old Spice under your seat. Go ahead and slap some on now, use plenty of it. It’s gonna be a long ride.”

Will gunned the Porsche down the I-880 on the east side of the bay to avoid the traffic in San Francisco.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Will asked. “I thought you gave that shit up.”

“I told you I’d quit fighting when I had enough cash. Can’t exactly make serious money flipping burgers at Carl’s Jr.” Troy had been cage-fighting in the underground circuit since his sophomore year at Stanford. The infamous Chinese triad Wo Hop ran the illegal gambling enterprise throughout the state, especially in the Bay Area.

“You almost threw everything you’ve worked for out the window last night.” The warehouse where Troy was fighting had been raided by the Oakland PD’s gang unit.

“Still have bills to pay.”

“Your dad’s debts were his, not yours.”

“My dad was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a bum.”

“That’s what bankruptcy laws are for.”

“He couldn’t do it.”

Troy leaned back his seat to close his eyes. He hadn’t slept all night in the holding tank. The stink of stale urine and vomit was stronger than his fatigue. They drove along in silence for a few minutes. Will finally calmed down. Couldn’t stay angry with the kid. He risked his life in the no-holds-barred cage fights to earn money to pay off his old man’s debts. It was stupid, but honorable.

“So you won.”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“I used to be a spook, remember?” Started to tell Troy that he was the one who had tipped the Oakland PD to the location, but the boy was already sound asleep, the unopened bottle of Old Spice still clutched in his hand.