Urban Warriors: Seven Days in the Life

By J.R. Kent

The term warrior has two meanings according to the Random House dictionary; the first literal use refers to a person engaged or experienced in warfare. A second figurative use refers to a person who shows or has shown great vigor, courage, or aggressiveness as in politics and athletics. It would naturally include business and most importantlylife. In these days and times it is beneficial for a person to be referred to in both ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469186580

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Copyright © 2012 by J.R. Kent.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4691-8657-3

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-8658-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Intro       Toledo, Ohio, U.S.A.

Prologue       Fall 1989

1      July 1999

2      Interrogations

3      Playing catch up under stress

4      Background Check

5      Day Two

6      Inquiries

7      Seeking Resolve as Inquiries Continue

8      Day Three

9      Encounters

10      Closer Encounters

11      Tuesday Late Morning

12      The Snake and the Nerd

13      Preparations and Moves

14      Wednesday morning

15      Hump Day

16      The Tables Begin to Turn

17      Arrested Development

18      Rebirth

19      Revelations

20      Frantic

21      On the Edge

22      Temporary Decompression

23      The Comfort Zone

24      Damage Control

25      The Prodigal Son Returns

26      Confrontation

27      Escapism

Epilogue

The term ‘warrior’ has two meanings according to the Random House dictionary; the first literal use refers to a person engaged or experienced in warfare. A second figurative use refers to a person who shows or has shown great vigor, courage, or aggressiveness as in politics and athletics. It would naturally include business and most importantly…life. In these days and times it is beneficial for a person to be referred to in both ways.

Dedicated to my mother, Johnnie Mae-the first female

urban warrior of my lifetime. I love you Ma.

Thank you Wonder Woman…for being you…and seeing

me. SS -You inspire me and will always have my love.

Truth is the foundation upon which my fiction is

borne and built….and is the soul of all good fiction.

J.R. Kent

Intro

Toledo, Ohio, U.S.A.

The first time I saw Mario, he was running. He was only ten years old, running from the local bullies on the way home from school. He was fast.

Fast as he was he got caught from time to time. And the two sons of a local sport figure were merciless. Their football playing father gave them juice among the kids at school, and they were some big for their age suckers. And the Cleveland Browns connection through their father and the way he raised them, nurtured their desire to bully around school.

One of my last memories of him during that childhood period of our lives is of Mario hanging from that lowest rung on a telephone pole. His cheap coat finally gave way to gravity and as always, the small for his age warrior to be, fought back his tears and pride and made his way home.

As we grew, or maybe I should say I did and he a bit slower, Mario always compensated for his small stature. Eventually he became a good little scrapper by the time he graduated Junior High School. He still took some ass kicking, but he also gave some.

By the time we made it to High School, in our freshman year, Mario had a small reputation of being a bad little dude with his hands. He had started boxing Golden Gloves and, while he still feared his mother and went to school, joined a gang. We both did. Nothing like the gangs of today, we used hands and knives…and a gun only whenever somebody got stupid. Back then, there was a different code.

We had hid under the Cherry Street Bridge that last time, dividing up our spoils from a day of pick pocketing and purse snatching. A week later he was gone.

His aunt and grandmother had his uncles pay special attention to Mario that week. They curtailed his ability to do almost everything extra-curricular, especially hanging with his boys. It wasn’t grounding, more; it was a lock-down. They had had trouble containing him since his mother had with his youngest baby brother gone to California to seek a better life.

So he, his other brother and two sisters lived temporarily with his aunt and grandmother back in our home town Toledo, Ohio. The prospect of his mother sending for them had seemed so far away to Mario and me, we were relishing in the ghetto life we were leading. Man, we were running wild (and standing up to the whippings from Tee-Tee and Big Mama) until that lockdown from the uncles. The uncles would hit us like we were men and we feared them. I know that Mario was kept honest, locked down and scared right up to the time he boarded that plane.

But after his mother did send for him, the months that seemed like years, turned into what felt like days. What with me still having to deal with the challenges of our little hood without my best friend, soon the years just flew by. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to Mario, he just fell of the scene. I eventually heard that his mother sent for him, his brother and sisters and that he was in Oakland. I guess that was the first brick in the foundation of what would come to be a part of his reputation. You’d hear through the grapevine that he was here or there somewhere in the world.

I didn’t know that week after we split that little bit of loot under the Cherry Street Bridge that it would be a long time before I would see Mario Stone again. Eventually, I became accustomed to hearing the rumors from his relatives in Toledo. Every few years after I graduated college and began to settle into my adulthood life, I would hear that he was doing well in California. No one could definitely say at what, but it had something to do with some kind of steamship agency and ocean freight.

When I heard something about him, it forced the reminiscence monster inside me to wonder if he ever thought about us back home. I was able to reach out to his mother through her sister in Toledo. She gave me his numbers and I called them many times only to leave messages that went unreturned. I began to wonder if my home boy had forgotten where he came from. Then, eventually he became a childhood friend with whom I lost touch.

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PROLOGUE

Fall 1989

It felt strange looking out of the first class window as the jet banked over Lake Michigan to circle toward its approach to O’Hare. The touch to his knuckles and fingers resting against its pane was cold and accompanied that eerie feeling containing a big mixture of irony, relief with resolve and determined hope.

First because of the very real fact that despite the trappings of his first class transportation, he had only thirty-seven bucks in his pocket at thirty-seven years of age. It was ironic indeed that, after such nice long run of big money, fun and adventure, he found himself yet again in the position of starting over in a new place practically broke. And this time unlike all except one other, it wasn’t of his own volition. His escorts sat, one beside him and the other in the seat across the aisle, in his same row.

Second, circumstances aside, he knew all too well the terrain of living on the edge. In that area his survival instincts sparked into overdrive and he could feel their power now as he sipped the champagne and watched the bird’s eye view of the city.

Third, there was the residue of his innate instinct burning within him to survive… the knowledge borne in the determination to bounce back. He knew as long as he didn’t give up hope or stop breathing, bounce back he would as he had done before.

As he watched from the clear blue sky containing him lounging in the jet, he marveled at the view of the city sitting on the edge of Lake Michigan. The first thing that struck him was the beach of the lake, which was separated from downtown Chicago by the prominently identifiable Lakeshore Drive. The combination made him think of beachfronts in Miami and Malibu. Like a fusion of the two types.

The structures of the downtown area on the other side of Lakeshore Drive stood majestically side by side in a dense formation. Shoulder to shoulder they stood on a grid system of almost square and uniform blocks.

From his bird’s eye view, their combined magnificence was stunning. And the buildings themselves… the awesome nature of the height and architectural design contained in each one hit him like a body blow. He knew that he would love this jewel of city at first sight from that jet.

What he didn’t know was that this city he would love would also reinforce his long held belief that every diamond has its flaw.

The same circumstances that put him on that jet with thirty-seven bucks had also obviously dictated his destination be Chicago. Those circumstances that had consequences attached to them. Circumstances initially created by his desire to be free and the subsequent actions he had taken to make it so. Yeah, he thought, it had worked for a while.

Now he found himself not only back in the same situation, but also back with a loss of credibility and worse, respect. Back with them again, except this time in a different base location. Damn, he thought further, with attributes such as those shot to hell, life back with the organization would be tough. What the hell, he concluded. He snatched his focus from the window, emptied his flute and then gestured for a refill.

They got what they wanted. They got me back. He said softly as he gazed at the good-looking flight attendant while she poured the champagne.

Pardon me sir? she asked.

I was just thinking aloud. He replied as he rudely reached over his escort as if he were an obnoxious stranger and then looked back out the window.

This will have to be the last refill as we will be preparing the cabin for landing momentarily. She added with a perfect smile that he caught as she brought his attention back to her.

I appreciate your taking special care of me during the flight. It’s been a pleasure. He tipped his flute to her with a wink, downed its contents and let her clear his tray.

The intercom of the plane piped in with a crackle. "Ladies and gentlemen this is your Captain speaking. You will note on our left a most striking view of downtown Chicago as we make our approach to O’Hare. The temperature is a crisp fifty-two degrees. Local time is close to noon at 11:52.

Not a cloud in the sky as you can plainly see the Sears Tower and the Hancock building with the other impressive structures that make up the city. I ask that you pay attention to your flight crew who will prepare you for landing. We, the entire crew, thank you for allowing us to fly you.

Yeah, he thought as he settled back watching the flight attendant walk away like a model. They got me back for now, but not for long.

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July 1999

Day One 7:52a.m.

Saturday morning cartoons always served as a mechanism to trigger his imagination, ever since his childhood. But now computer assisted graphics and technology took hold of cartoons and grew them up to become known as animation.

Back when he was a kid, like most kids, he was attracted to cartoons; but not as much as his comic books. When he watched those available at the time, the classic Bugs, Daffy and Tweedy Bird, he wished they could bring his comics to life in cartoons. Perhaps it was then when the foundation was laid within his mind eye for imaginative musing that would eventually become a major problem-solving tool in adulthood.

In his teens they did make an attempt to animate his comics. But the technology still needed time to produce more than stills with lips moving. Nothing compared to highly illustrated books that forced the imagination to run with the images in realistic terms.

Now he had a collection on video of CGI animation that realistically portrayed plots so adult that you would not show your child. With all the violence demonstrated as realistically as any comic could describe.

This early Saturday morning his choice was between Aeon Flux and Gunsmith Cats. Of the two Japanese Anime style animations, he chose the latter about two female gunsmiths set in futuristic Chicago. They busted up the bad guys in skimpy, sexy outfits in vivid animated color on the muted TV monitor next to the extended height picture window at the far end of his large bedroom. He focused alternately on it and the hi-rise window view outside.

The focus was accompanied by his breathing. His breathing was regulated by the sound coming from the CD spinning inside the player in the entertainment center below the TV monitor.

Jazzy B’s group Soul II Soul provided the regulatory audio with synthesized orchestrated melodies on top of deep bass and funk rhythms.

The sound complimented his mood and his focus, and it provided a rich and soulful ambience. It gave additional life energy to the room as it moved driven by the insistent bass and drums.

He is at peace with the synched animated focus, breathing, physical movement calibrated by the rhythm of Jazzy B’s Keep on Moving. Straddling back in the bench vigorously working the light dumbbells has his mind crackling with adrenaline charged electrical thought, cut with imaginative sparks generated by the animated color.

He mused briefly, as he did from time to time, how most individuals his age would think his regime to be somewhat infantile. The muted animation and music seemed to be childish or silly ingredients to some who had impressions of him. But the few who really knew him also knew that it was way deeper than that.

There is something about the colors or maybe it was something else. He really did not know nor did he care. All he knew was that from the time he was forced to make training a part of his lifestyle, the entire combination nurtured his focus - sparked his imaginative power and complimented his training. So if anyone thought his regime infantile, fuck ‘em. He came to an understanding long ago that what people thought of him, needed to be a very low priority in his mind.

Besides, his training had become so natural and necessary to him that it was like breathing, or having to go to the toilet. Something one has to do to live, something to do in private.

What was important was that the atmosphere was primed. The sweat, the clarity, the focus and burn all mixed to create a cocktail of total benefit. That was happening now on this Saturday morning…at least that’s the way it started.

Mario Ansul Stone was in the third set of the weight work portion of his daily training. He had already done an hour of Wing Chun and Chin Na techniques. His communication bridges; primary land line, mobile phone, computer phone were set for voice mail. The only way he could be reached was his second landline, his home hot line. And only a chosen few had the number which he would always answer if called and regardless of the circumstance.

Just as he had done earlier during his workout, a call which must have been a wrong number since all he heard was stale air, then a dial tone. The so-called hot line in the past couple of years had really not been one; his life was such that drama was limited to his business problems. Many times he wondered if the line was even necessary anymore.

But for the most part, other than that small interruption his workout was as he wanted, undisturbed and totally under his control. It was all good…almost perfect.

Finished with his third set, he was looking forward to the run portion of his workout. He transitioned his body from the bench to floor in front of it and began his second fifteen-minute stretching routine. He continued to regulate his breathing to the atmospheric soundtrack of Soul II Soul which now transitioned with him to the track Back to Life with Caron Wheeler’s vocals reiterating its title. They became a mantra in his mind as he breathed and stretched with his gaze locked still on the muted animated monitor.

On the cusp of getting his mental groove, the special place he had to be to overcome his tendency to rationalize a reason not to run, he was almost there. He was just about ready to run…then he heard the distinct ring of his hotline again.

After the initial pissed off reaction, he was inclined to just ignore it. But of course he couldn’t. When he answered he heard static air again and immediately hung up. Noticing the Caller ID again indicated a blocked number seemed curious but he found himself wishing he could at least tell whoever was calling they obviously had a wrong number. No one who he had given the number would call and hang up.

His thoughts back on the run, he mused that maybe he’d skip it, just this once. But twenty years of classical conditioning, like Pavlov’s dog, took control. Any thought to diverge from this somewhat disliked part of his training, served as the bell ring that drove him toward the meal of miles. The beginning of the run, the most difficult part of his training for him and the biggest roadblock to its completion was the focus now. It is the almost daily example of a small challenge within a necessary regimen that conditioned his humility.

Always, once he overcame that roadblock and got into the run at large, his joy and focus increased exponentially with each mile. He would use that joy, focus and all of the benefits of the exertion; running while thinking about his big special event promotion tonight.

Yes, he thought. Despite its difficult beginning, this morning he would, as usual, enjoy the last part of his workout he hated most. Poison into Medicine.

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The young G sat casually on the concrete bench at the end of the round about in front of the building marked 2901. A lunch box and newspaper lay next to him on the bench. He was playing a video game on the cell phone he had just used to make the call. His clothes while sagging and oversized were neutral in color, and while they still could be considered as gear, did not indicate his lifestyle as a gangsta’.

There was no real suspicion of his presence; his appearance was of a teen waiting to be picked up for a summer job or school. Not unusual further because the bench was provided to serve that very purpose, a pick up point for the buildings tenants and guests. But he was neither.

He sat there thinking about how cool and exciting what he was doing now as he rushed to finish his game. He had an ear bud with a small boom connected to a compact two way radio, just like the Feds.

Being a self proclaimed gangsta, what he was actually into now made him like he was ‘pushing up’. He was getting ahead; he thought as he finally finished the game and felt the vibration of the two way radio.

No one really noticed or paid attention to him there early Saturday morning. However, if someone had scrutinized him as he spoke into the boom they would have known he was up to something. He was acting way to ‘cloak and dagger’. The way people joke about William Shatner overacting his role as Captain Kirk. It was really pure luck that no one noticed.

Yo dude, I was just about to let you know that I made the call. He answered, so he’s still up there. The G said and then listened, eyes darting around and scanning the area.

OK…OK, I was just finishing the game… he tried to say in defense of the admonishment he was receiving in his ear. He listened again with a flinch.

It won’t happen again dawg, I swear. When should I hit ‘im wit’ another call? What if he don’t come out? He replied as he glanced toward the hi-rise lobby door. He didn’t allow for answer to his questions. "That’s OK dude. I see ‘im. He’s on his way out and I’m coming to you.

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It was a wonderful morning. Mario noticed as soon as he came out of the building and bounced in place that it wasn’t too hot yet like most Chicago days and nights in July. It seemed to be in the upper-sixties and the humidity wasn’t yet thick, though he could tell it was increasing. Taking it all as a blessing, he sharpened his focus as he ran across the round about, toward the lakefront.

By the time he made it to the 31st street beach path of the lakefront, he embraced the warming breeze coming off the lake. He turned northward toward the central city, immediately taking in the spectacular view. The view that reminded him of the day he fell in love with the city from above a decade ago.

As he ran, thoughts began to creep into his psyche through the cracks of the mental struggle to focus on his breathing and synchronizing his stride to it. Memories formed…retrospectives of his life, distant family and yes that day he flew into Chicago from Denver and fell in love with that view from above. And the fucked up circumstances that brought him to Chicago and what he was able to accomplish in the ten years since.

He smiled as he thought about his life now. He had come a long way from life borne in the streets getting that fast money, running fast women and living on the edge. He had endured the perpetual nomadic lifestyle required in a life of finesse crime. Then again after evolving into another life, masked as legitimate, with an organization that honed his skills. But it still required a shadow existence that he sought to be free of as strongly if not more as the illegitimate life. Especially since the life on the edge with the organization included the prospect of death more often than not. Almost getting killed frequently is probably the best incentive Mario had to escape that life despite his affinity to living on the edge.

But he had seen the world, been trained as well any special operative in personal warfare, languages and cultures. He developed a profession in International freight forwarding and Customs Brokering, and now has his own part time company on the side doing a vigorous business. Yeah, he had come a long way from Toledo, Ohio crisscrossing across the USA from the Bay area of California and landing in Denver before coming to Chicago. He had been abroad to Asia, Europe and South America. And he was still alive.

All Mario ever wanted was to be free, answering to no one…financially, physically and spiritually, and in love with a warrior woman he could trust with his life. One out of two ain’t bad he thought as he made it to his turnaround point at Soldier Field. What the hell he thought; the past is the past, lessons learned…and blessings from that were evident in his current life, which is really cool.

He felt what could be the closet thing to happiness that he could imagine as he took in the southern view of the lakefront. The water on his left reflected both the sun and the sky. All he heard was the sound of sea gulls cawing as they soared low over the lake and intermittent sounds of Smooth Jazz and Rap lofting through the air from cars as they passed on the Drive.

As he focused on the more natural view with Rainbow Park and its water filtration plant jutting out from the shore, he increased his pace. Happiness mixed with adrenaline, there is no drug better. He thought about the operation and the money he would make tonight at the promotion.

As he burst toward the beach path back onto 31st street, his imageview was in full effect. He conditioned himself long ago to see images and their proximity relationship to him rather than focus on fine detail. Scanning by rotating his head left and right constantly picking up images had become instinctive. How many times had he avoided hazard and getting hit from cars turning into an intersection he was crossing by using it? Too many times…and it served him well.

His scan picked up a woman running toward him and he picked up her smile as he focused on her. They exchanged waves and smiles as they passed one another. Then immediately he noticed two images standing next to BMX like bikes, appearing to talk to one another. As he honed in on them they did not appear to notice him.

Nothing occurred to him as strange about the images, except of course their attire. They wore skull caps. Well, he thought, not so inordinate since these young dudes’ fashion sense allowed them to wear damn near anything. Hoodies and, yes, skullcaps in the hot ass Chicago Summer.

Then he sprinted off of the beach path onto 31st street toward the first overpass to Lakeshore Drive and the final part of his run.

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We see him running right toward us!’ the taller of the two young Gs standing next to their bikes spoke into his radio transmitter boom. Do we go?"

No! the voice in the G’s ear admonished. Too much exposure to the lakefront traffic and I just saw a jogger on the path. Do not let him see you look at him! Get in front of him according to the plan. I’ll give you the go when it is time.

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He was in the zone now as he ran. Adrenaline was pumping through his brain and his body was functioning in pure form and on all cylinders. His sweaty five foot seven frame carried the one hundred sixty five pounds of mostly muscle like an agile cat. Small in stature compared to the average male he was comfortable with himself now and his youthful look lingered and he appeared to be in his mid thirties.

The same youthful look and small stature he experienced negatively as a youngster and young man, now served him well. With no insecurities after a successful defeat of his Napoleonic complex, he came to see the advantages of his physicality proven time after time. He had come to realize that he had the perfect physiology for his global urban lifestyle. He increased his pace even another notch. Mario felt again that life was good.

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OK guys, get ready!! When he reaches the point on 31st street we talked about, take him out on my mark!"

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As Mario crossed the first overpass on 31st street over Lakeshore Drive he noticed the bikes first bearing down on him from behind on the left. His euphoria began to dissolve and transform into a vibe of danger. It was the second time he saw them. The skull caps had morphed into ski masks.

He is two thirds across the Lakeshore Drive overpass when something abruptly dug into the guardrail next to him and then a familiar sound of popping explosions. His reflexes way ahead of his thought pattern forced him to accelerate crouched low and dive to his right over the guardrail at the end of the overpass.

The noisy discharges and digging slugs all around him forced him to register the unreal reality that these fuckers were shooting at him.

Mario’s action was now controlled by his survival instincts colored with the years of training. Despite the fact that it had been a long, long time since he had to use these skills, his body reacted supremely and without the requirement of thought. His training had honed his body and his mind, and they were working in tandem now.

They took him into a semi-tuck roll after clearing the guardrail with that dive. The fortuitous positioning of a small tree on the embankment provided a branch by which he grabbed and prevented the roll to continue down into the Lakeshore Drive traffic. Getting his footing in a crouched position, he needed a solution quickly and it came to him almost immediately.

Fear has a strange way of cultivating one’s survival instincts, especially when he is trained to embrace that fear and use it. In the seconds he had, Mario recognized two choices. The second overpass that he had to transverse had no viable cover even if the riders weren’t