The Detachment

walked over, getting the Supergrade back into my waistband and under my jacket just as the doors opened. I glanced inside. Two young Indian men, fresh-faced, navy slacks and starched white shirts. Wearing American Constitution Society badges on lanyards. They were close to the back wall, from which they wouldn’t be able to see the carnage outside.
    “Hi there,” I said, with a friendly wave. I was trying to indicate to Treven, Dox, and Larison that there were civilians in the elevator, and that they should put away the hardware so we could get the hell out of there.
    “Going down?” one of them said to me, in the characteristically sunny accent.
    “Yes,” I said, putting my arm out to block the doors. “Could you just hold the elevator for a second?” I turned toward Dox and Larison and called, “Someone’s being kind enough to hold the elevator for us. Let’s hurry.”
    We were lucky no one had poked a head out into the corridor so far. I supposed most of the rooms were empty at this time of day, but still, we had to beat feet.
    The second Indian guy sniffed. “Do you smell something strange? Smoke, I think. Like something is burning.”
    “Yeah,” I said, “a maintenance man just came through here. He said it was a problem with the ventilation system, nothing to worry about.”
    Dox, Larison, and Treven all collapsed into the elevator and I followed them in. The Indian guys suddenly looked very small. They backed up against the wall but it was still a tight squeeze. I pressed the garage floor button with a knuckle and the doors closed.
    “Thank you,” Dox said, smiling a smile that to my mind looked completely maniacal. “Would have hated to have to wait for the next one.”
    For a moment, no one said anything. There was nothing but the absurd sound of Muzak being pumped through unseen speakers.
    “Are you gentlemen…with the convention?” the first Indian guy said. He was looking at Larison. Obviously, some deep portion of his midbrain was screaming, Danger! But he was a thoroughly modern man, and trapped in an elevator, too, and so rather than running for the hills the way our far more sensible ancestors might have, he was trying to make conversation with an obvious predator, instead.
    “Not exactly,” Larison said.
    The elevator stopped on the fourth floor. The tension inside as we waited for the doors to open was explosive. The Indian guys must have been picking up on it, and I wondered what the hell they thought.
    The doors opened. Two pretty young women in skirts and heels, and both with American Constitution Society badges around their necks, surveyed the crowd inside. “It’s okay,” one of them said. “We’ll wait for the next one.”
    I knew I had maybe a second before Dox shoved the Indian guys against the wall to make room for the ladies. “Thanks,” I said, and hit the close button. The doors slid shut and mercifully, we were moving again.
    “We are supporters of the Constitution, of course,” Dox said. “And we revere that august document. But tragically, we’re not in town long enough to be part of the convention itself. How about you? Sounds like you’ve come some distance to be here.”
    I wanted to throttle him. Was he trying to get these two to remember us?
    “Indeed, all the way from New Delhi,” the second guy said. “We are studying sensible ways to amend our own constitution in India. And we often joke that perhaps you Americans could lend us yours, because you seem no longer to be using it yourselves.”
    The elevator chimed and came to a stop at the lobby level. Treven and I got out and Larison and Dox flattened against one of the walls to make room for the Indian guys.
    “Well, goodbye,” the first one said, as they got out.
    “And have a good day,” the second one added.
    “And you, too,” Dox said. “And thanks for appreciating our Constitution. It’s nice that somebody does.”
    The doors closed. “Jesus,” I said. “Why didn’t you just give them a business card? Or your phone number?”
    He looked hurt. “Just being a good ambassador, man. They came a long way, and for a worthy purpose.”
    “Yeah, and in about a half hour, when they’re being questioned by hotel security and the D.C. Metro Police and JSOC fucking assassins, they’ll remember very clearly the four men who got on their elevator on the ninth floor, the floor where four bodies were discovered riddled with bullet holes, the floor that reeked of gun smoke.”
    A long