Nate leaned forward as he drove, just in case the officer fired a shot at him through the back window. Stranger things had happened, he knew.
He was in luck that the light turned green on the next block and he didn’t have to blow through a red light on his way into the steel-and-glass guts of downtown Denver.
As he did, he glanced over to see that, yes, he’d concealed his weapon under a down vest. Which was probably a reason to arrest him on its own.
* * *
—
There was a small-scale riot going on. Knots of black-clad people, most wearing helmets or masks, appeared in his headlights at street corners and from the mouths of alleys. Some of them shouted at him as he drove by and Nate heard a rock or other projectile clang against the side of his panel van.
He gritted his teeth and kept going.
Red and blue wigwag lights from a phalanx of law enforcement cruisers lit up the white marble of the Colorado State Capitol Building as he passed it, and he could see tendrils of smoke or tear gas floating under streetlights from the direction he’d seen the fireworks. He caught a glimpse of three or four men smashing the plate-glass window of a darkened cannabis emporium with a fire extinguisher. He drove on by.
Sheets of plywood covered the front of most of the retail businesses, although a few plate-glass windows had been spared. Graffiti was scrawled on the plywood and exteriors. He didn’t read the text and didn’t care to. Every hundred yards or so, someone had spray-painted a capital A with the lines of the letter extending past an encompassing circle.
Antifa.
The Capitol Hill neighborhood was compact, and in just a few minutes he was through it. The residential streets to the east of the dome were stately and Midwestern-looking, made of brick and likely described as “leafy” in the spring and summer.
He took a right on Corona Street, and a little finish-line flag chirped on the map app on his phone. He saw an off-street strip mall with several squat structures on it surrounded by homes. Only one place appeared to be open. It was marked with an ancient red neon palomino lounge sign out front. Five older-model cars were parked in the small lot.
Nate didn’t park in the lot because he didn’t like the look of it. There was one entrance and one egress, and the cars were all nosed against the front of the Palomino itself. There was a series of old-growth cottonwoods near the sidewalk before reaching the street. To make a fast escape, you’d have to reverse from a spot in the lot, do a three-point turn to carefully avoid crashing into one of the trees, and head for the exit. It would make for a messy maneuver.
Instead, he parked on the street half a block away from the lounge. He wedged his van between a Subaru with co-exist stickers on the rear bumper and a rattletrap red Jeep Cherokee.
He drew out his phone and found the text thread with Geronimo Jones and tapped out: I’m here.
Then Nate slid out of the driver’s seat and crab-walked into the back of the van. He located a toggle switch on the interior panel and turned it on. Because there were no side windows to the van and the back ones were covered by shades, no one outside could see in.
He pulled on the shoulder holster with the .454 and buckled it on and covered the rig by zipping his down vest over it. He slipped an eight-inch Buck knife into the top of his left lace-up boot. He strapped a 9mm semiautomatic Sig Sauer P365 pocket pistol on his right ankle and concealed them both by rolling down the cuffs of his jeans. A stubby canister of bear spray—a favorite tool of his friend Joe’s—went into the right pocket of his vest.
Although he wanted to put his trust in Geronimo Jones, he had no illusions. “Geronimo Jones” could be Axel Soledad’s alias, or the name being used by one of Soledad’s accomplices to lure him in.
Before going out and clicking off the light, he looked around. Empty cages stood stacked and secured against the interior walls on both sides of the van. A bulging duffel bag of clothes and gear was shoved against the inside of the back doors.
His phone lit up as he exited through the driver’s door into the street.
It read: Come on in.
* * *
—
Nate threaded his way through the parked cars in front of the Palomino Lounge. The bar was from another era, before Denver was gentrified. It was square and plain, and the neon coors sign in the window was so old it looked new again. It was a neighborhood bar.
The front door was faced with dented metal and the handle was a well-worn horseshoe welded to the frame.
He pulled it open and slid inside. He knew better than to stride right in. Instead, he kept his back to the wall on the side of the door until he could assess the situation.