White Space Season 2

taking a chance sending a message which could be used as evidence later, but as Blake continued to speak, Warren felt minutes spilling like blood from a cut.
    “Cancel,” he wrote.
    Warren watched as Kaiser looked down and pulled the cell from his pocket. He was too far for Warren to accurately gauge his expression, but Warren imagined his rolling eye, disgusted by his conspirator’s impotence.
    Kaiser looked up from the cell, then turned to Warren, shaking his head.
    What?
    Warren palmed his cell again.
    “I said cancel!” he wrote.
    Kaiser looked down at his cell again, still shaking his head.
    How dare he ignore me?
    Warren grabbed his phone, and texted, “Do not shoot Blake Conway.”
    Warren smiled as Kaiser read his message. If he refused to abort the shooting, their texts would be traced, and evidence of their involvement would damn them both.
    Kaiser met his eyes and shook his head again.
    Blake turned to Warren, “And now, my son, Warren Conway, is eager to tell you all about our plans to give back to a community so shaken by these senseless acts.”
    Shit, shit.
    Warren turned to Ms. Penderson, waiting beside a scattering of beneficiaries standing by for their oversized checks, smiled, then took the podium, glanced at his cell and read his speech from the screen.
    Two paragraphs in, Warren saw Don Bellows brush past Kaiser, heading straight toward the front of the tent, walking with purpose, hand in his jacket.
    Oh, God!
    Warren turned to Blake, warning him to duck.
    Don screamed, “Murderers!” as he aimed his pistol at Blake.
    The crowd erupted in terror as Don pulled the trigger.
    Sharp pain split Warren’s back like a lightning striking.
    He turned, shocked, to see Don firing not at Blake, but at him.
    Bellows fired a second time, hitting Warren twice. Once in the chest and again in the gut.
    Warren fell to the ground, confused, scared, crying out.
    As Warren fell, gunshots echoed throughout the tent as Paladin officers unloaded their weapons into the crazy gunman.
    Warren stared up at the tent’s canvas, his world blurring at the edges.
    Why did he shoot me?
    He struggled to turn his neck but could barely move. He felt suddenly desperate to make sure his father was safe.
    Blake walked over, dropped to Warren’s side, and met his son’s eyes.
    Warren cried, “Am I dying?”
    Blake looked down at Warren’s injuries, then turned and yelled, “Someone help my son! He’s been shot.”
    Blake set a comforting hand on Warren’s chest, leaned forward and brought his mouth to Warren’s ear, “There, there,” he said in a soothing voice. “It’ll all be over soon enough.”
    “What?” Blake said, or tried to say, but instead coughed up blood.
    Blake whispered again, “You didn’t really think you could outsmart your father, did you?”
    Warren looked up into Father’s eyes and saw the betrayal inside them.
    Kaiser!
    Blake leaned in closer. “I’m sorry, Son. I really didn’t want it to end this way, but you left me no choice. You’ve always had such a problem with sacrifice.”
    Warren looked into Father’s eyes wanting to ask why? or how?
    But Warren could only die.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 9 — Cassidy Hughes and Jon Conway

CASSIDY

    “My name is Cassidy, and I’m an addict.”
    Cassidy met the room’s stare, even though it was painful to see others, and killed her to hold their gazes. But that was the true point of a Narcotics Anonymous meeting — to learn who you were as your soul stood naked in front of others not too different from yourself. Everyone in the library wished to forget, and not one of them could. They could admit the truth and soften the edges, but only a day at a time. Anything more was chasing clouds through the sky.
    “It’s been seven days since I last used.”
    A dozen people in hard plastic chairs sang as one.
    “Hi, Cassidy.”
    “I’ve not shared in a while. Usually, I come to these meetings and listen, knowing I’m a fraud, and feeling like I don’t belong. I’m always so nervous, thinking everyone is watching, which is silly, I know, since everyone else in here probably feels the same way. I sit, usually at the back with my stomach in knots, hating myself and the Addict who owns me.”
    FUCK, she hated this.
    “Addictions all share their roots. From weed and liquor to rocks, needles, and pills — they’re all the same. Addictions numb our pain, give us a glimmer of hope when we’re otherwise failing, hold our fear at arm’s length so it