Rushed(79)

"You’re not Superman, despite trying to look the part by spending so much time in the gym,” Dad said with a chuckle.

He turned on the small television he kept in his office, turning it to the local CBS affiliate. A special news report was already showing, with fire trucks and police gathered outside the convention center. We watched as the reporter, a guy who'd been with the station since I was in high school, described the scene. "The reports are preliminary, but from what I can gather, the bomb was placed in a trash can near the north entrance of the building, where attendees were coming back after a lunch break. Interior security cameras show this man placing a package in the garbage can closest to the entry hallway before running out. Unfortunately, the only camera footage released so far shows no details about his identity, although a group has come forward to claim responsibility for the attack."

The camera shot cut back to a prepackaged video, supposedly uploaded to the station soon after the attack. The screen showed a hooded figure wearing a black mask, with a giant Earth emblazoned on a backdrop behind him. "The Gaea Defense Force takes full responsibility for this defense of our planet and mother. Those who were injured today were nothing more than viruses, bacteria who are polluting and raping our mother. Like any good child, we defend our mother. Stop the slaughter of cattle, stop the pollution of our Earth. This is the GDF. We will not back down. We will not let up."

The video continued, but the reporter's voice took over. Dad and I watched it for a few more minutes, but there was nothing more that came out. He reached up and shut off the television. “I’ve had dealings with those types before at the restaurant," Dad said, sighing as he leaned back. "They're relatively new in town—an offshoot of the environmental movement."

I sighed, finishing my scotch. “Why are they so violent?"

"They've gotten some new people involved, it seems," Dad said. “They’re probably just trying to get noticed. I think they know enough to not screw with our family, though. As for Miss Mendosa, I can’t say for certain."

"We were still lucky," I said, looking out the window. I laughed bitterly and set my tumbler down. "A few seconds later, and I would for sure not need that damn Creatine I bought today."

He finished his glass and nodded. “I’m glad that you’re mostly unhurt. Come, let’s see how Miss Mendosa is doing and then call the lawyer just in case you two were spotted on any cameras."

As always, my father had a point. "All right. Thanks for the drink."

We left his office to go down to the gym, where we found the doctor still with Luisa, who'd woken up in the time she was on the table. He was checking her eyes with his penlight and looking carefully. "Well, I don't think you have a concussion, Miss Mendosa, but I'd still be careful for a while. That laceration on the back of your scalp was pretty nasty. I had to put in thirty stitches."

She nodded slowly, laying still. "How long will they be in?"

"I'd say you can have them taken out in a week. If you're still in town, I'd be happy to do it," he said, putting his light away. He turned to see Dad and me walk into the room, and he smiled. “Other than a ruined suit and a nasty little scalp laceration, I'd say she’s okay.” He turned to me. “How's the ear, Tomasso?"

"I can hear now," I said, turning to the side while the man got his little device out of his bag and checked me out. "Guess that one just took more of a blast than the other."

"That, and you need to clean your ears out better," the doctor grumped, and Luisa chuckled on the massage table. The doctor smirked and gave me a wink. "No, seriously, you're okay. I'm sure you're a busy man, so I’m going to get out of your way.”

He left, leaving Dad, Luisa and myself in the room. I looked down at Luisa, whose suit was pretty trashed. “Thanks for having me seen to, Don Bertoli."

He shook his head and came over, putting his hand on Luisa's shoulder when she struggled to get up. "It was nothing, Miss Mendosa. After you recover some, we should contact your father. The man who ran you over is a member of a radical eco-terrorist organization, and while I doubt you were specifically targeted, we should get you protected just in case. What do you remember about him?"

"His eyes and the scar on his face," Luisa said, before describing what she’d seen. "I'm sure that makes him stand out quite a bit."

"For sure, but first, we should talk to our lawyer. No offense, but for families in our line of work, a talk with the police isn’t always the smartest thing. Or at least, an unchaperoned talk."

Luisa smiled and slowly sat up, revealing the large mass of stained hair from where the blood had soaked in. "I understand. This isn’t Brazil, where the Porto Alegre chief of police is a cousin of mine, bought and paid for. Your Seattle police are probably a bit more honest than mine."

"They aren't family," Dad acknowledged. “That’s all that matters. But come. First, let’s get you a shower—you look like hell. My niece still has some clothes here. Maybe you can wear some of her things while I send someone to your hotel to get your things."

"Don Bertoli, I don't think that would be necessary," Luisa protested, stopping when Dad held up his hand.

“You could be in danger. Until we know for sure you weren’t the target, I insist that you stay under my protection for the rest of your stay in Seattle. My son will be responsible for your immediate safety."