‘Well you make sure you’re ready to move those goddamn mines if we need to leave in a hurry.’
‘We will, Sir.’
Myles kept watching and wondering. He knew something was wrong, but didn’t know what.
Several more minutes passed. Myles could see the Roosevelt Guardian standing outside in the sun was beginning to sweat.
Then, out of nowhere, a much larger group of armed men emerged. In two columns, they filed down both sides of the convoy. There they waited for several more minutes, until more men came, holding more mines. These were placed under the three middle vehicles in the convoy. Whatever armour the vehicles had underneath, Myles knew if the mines exploded, the SUVs would be obliterated.
Suddenly, one of the border guards leant forward and pulled on the door handle next to Dick Roosevelt. It opened.
The man tugged at Dick Roosevelt’s arm, and quickly dragged him out of the vehicle. Before he knew what had happened, Dick Roosevelt stood confused and blinking in the sun.
The open car door was swiftly closed again, and a message flickered over the convoy’s radios. ‘Lockdown — Lockdown!’
The cars locked their doors in unison. The men with guns heard the mechanisms clunk and reacted by pulling on the door handles. None opened.
The man holding Dick Roosevelt pointed his gun under the American’s chin. Myles saw a disfiguring scar across the man’s abdomen, and witnessed how casually he handled his weapon.
The Roosevelt Guardian who was standing outside waiting for the passports moved over. He raised his shades, hoping for eye contact with the man holding the younger Roosevelt. ‘Can you release him, please?’ The Roosevelt Guardian made his point as politely as he could.
But the man smiled like he didn’t care. Myles could see his teeth were rotten. ‘We have to search the vehicles,’ he said.
‘Yes, but can you release this man first, please?’
‘We have to search the vehicles,’ repeated the man.
The Guardian pressed the radio mic clipped to his collar. ‘They say they need to search the vehicles before they release the Secondary Principal.’
There was a pause, then a reply came over the system. ‘OK, release the doors.’
The Senator slammed his fist against one of the seats. ‘No. That’s bad procedure. We sit tight.’
The driver quickly relayed his instruction back over the radio. ‘Negative: we do NOT release the doors,’ he shouted into the mic. ‘Repeat, do NOT release the doors. Sit tight. Out.’
The Senator checked that his order was being obeyed before he started muttering to Myles. ‘What sort of security business has this become? We can’t release the doors just because some pirate waves a gun around…’
The African man with the scar soon realised what had happened: the Americans were playing hardball…
He waited for a few moments to check they weren’t going to change their minds. Then he poked the gun barrel further into Dick Roosevelt’s chin. Dick Roosevelt called out, words which could only just be heard through the vehicles’ thick bulletproof glass. ‘Dad? They want you to open the doors,’ pleaded the younger Roosevelt. ‘Father?’
The Senator didn’t blink. His face simply said ‘America can’t give in to terrorists’.
Myles saw Dick Roosevelt trying to catch his father’s attention, but Sam Roosevelt refused to even turn his head.
Then the African nodded to one of his men, who took Dick Roosevelt from him and led him away, towards a concrete hut and out of sight of the main convoy. The hero of the Wall Street bomb looked terrified.
The gang leader called over the sole Roosevelt Guardian who was standing outside, unprotected. ‘Hey, you. Do you smoke?’ He asked his question casually.
‘Sometimes, yes,’ admitted the American private security man, trying to be helpful. He was a tall man with shades hanging round his neck. ‘Do you want a cigarette?’ He delved in his back pocket, reaching for a packet of smokes. Several of the Africans cocked their guns towards him, wary that he might be reaching for a weapon. But they relaxed when the man’s hand reappeared, armed only with a box of twenty. The Roosevelt Guardian held out the pack, offering them to the border guard.
The African waved them away. ‘No thanks. You ought to give that up.’
‘No use — I’ve tried,’ said the security man, trying to joke. ‘It’s not so easy.’
With an arrogant smile, the gang leader with the scar leaned back and laughed. ‘Oh, it’s very easy. I can stop you ever smoking again.’
The crack of a single gunshot rang out and the Roosevelt Guardian collapsed into the dirt, still holding his packet of cigarettes. Myles saw dark blood ooze out from beneath the Guardian’s body, soaking into the dust beside him.
Thirteen
The Roosevelt Guardians inside the vehicles stared in horror at the murder. One moved to jump out, desperate to offer life support to their fallen friend.
The Senator stopped him. ‘Stay inside. He’s dead — nothing you can do for him.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Myles watched as the border guards ambled around the body. One of them kicked the Roosevelt Guardian to check he had been killed. Another searched his pockets, pretending it was an official check but really just looking for things to steal. They allowed several more minutes to pass, making sure the impact of the murder sunk in.
Then their leader moved forward, his face right up against the bulletproof glass nearest to Sam Roosevelt. ‘Senator,’ he hissed. ‘Open up your convoy so we can search your vehicles…’ He spoke his words coldly, then twisted his face on the glass and grinned. ‘Or we kill your son.’
The Senator lifted his palm to his forehead. Myles could tell what he was thinking: How had it come to this?
Sam Roosevelt had started his ‘Guardians’ when he was fresh out of Vietnam. By professionalising his private security company back in the seventies, Sam Roosevelt had made his Guardians the market leader. It took more than a decade for his methods to become the industry standard. By then he had captured most of the contracts. Roosevelt Guardians had become a brand. It gave Sam a claim to leadership even greater than the family name. How had Dick let the standards collapse?
Myles had seen the mistakes, too. Dick Roosevelt’s door should have been locked. They shouldn’t have let the guard with the passports leave the vehicle. The drivers shouldn’t have parked so close — they’d allowed the convoy to be boxed in.
These weren’t single accidents. They pointed to systematic failure. Under Dick Roosevelt, the Roosevelt Guardians had lost their discipline.
Myles heard the Senator curse himself. ‘Resting on our damn laurels…’ the old man muttered. It was a phrase from Ancient Rome. Myles guessed Sam Roosevelt probably knew laurels were awarded for military glory — past glory.
One of the Guardians turned to the Senator for guidance. ‘Sir? We need to answer.’
‘Well, what do your damn protocols say?’
The security man paused. He had no ready answer.
The Senator thumped the seat with his fist. ‘What has this firm become? You should have this worked out in advance. OK, what are your choices?’
‘Well, sit tight or let them search the vehicles, sir.’
‘OK, so what happens in each case?’ quizzed the Senator.
‘Well, if we sit tight, they’ll probably kill the Secondary Principal — your son, sir.’
‘And?’
The security guard was shocked by how easily the Senator could contemplate his son’s death. ‘Sir, after that, if we still sit tight, they’ll use the road mines to blow up our vehicles.’