Read Flight for Free Online

kind of poet.”
    “I’m a killer poet,” I say.
    The other FBI loves that. He slaps me hard on the back, but it doesn’t hurt at all because I am very muscular.
    “What time is it anyway?” I ask.
    “Three in the morn,” the other FBI says. “We have to hurry.”
    So we get into the government sedan and the other FBI drives us through a maze of dirt roads to an old shack sitting out the middle of a dark nowhere. It’s so dark I can’t see more than four or five feet away. It’s like being in the belly of a whale.
    “I bet you can’t get cell phone reception out here,” I say.
    “What’s a cell phone?” the other FBI asks.
    It’s my turn to laugh.
    “Is the FBI too cheap to give cell phones to its agents?” I ask.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
    Wow, this guy isn’t kidding. He doesn’t know about cell phones. I guess he’s old-fashioned. I want to ask him if he’s heard of electricity.
    Then I see headlights coming down the road behind us.
    “All right, all right, get your game face on, kid,” says the other FBI. “Things could get ugly real quick.”
    He pulls out his pistol and checks the ammo.
    “Are we going to have a gunfight?” I ask.
    “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says.
    So I pull out my pistol and check the ammo. Okay, I think, I have to be in some kind of dream. This can’t be real. I cannot be getting ready for a gunfight. I’m excited and scared. And then I realize something.
    “Hey,” I say to the other FBI. “What’s your name?”
    He reacts like I just slapped him.
    “You’re not okay, are you?” he asks. I can see big fear in his eyes. That fear doesn’t seem fake. It doesn’t feel like a dream. The headlights behind us move closer.
    “I’m okay,” I say. “I just forgot your name.”
    “You lied to me,” he says. “There is something wrong with you, isn’t there? Jeez, you had one of them strokes, didn’t you? Ah, man, we’re in trouble.”
    He looks back at those headlights traveling toward us. There must be seriously dangerous dudes in that car.
    “Just tell me your name,” I say.
    “Art,” he says. “My name is Art. You and I have been partners for twelve years.”
    “That’s a long time,” I say.
    The other car pulls up beside us. I look inside and see two Indian guys. They look familiar. I stare at them. And they stare at me. And then I realize who they are. They’re activists from IRON, which is the acronym for Indigenous Rights Now!
    “Hey, Art,” I say, “those guys are famous.”
    Art almost gasps and lets out this squeaky whine, like a little girl on a roller coaster.
    “The passenger, what’s his name?” I ask.
    I remember that the members of IRON gave up their birth names because they were “colonial poison” and named themselves after animals.
    “Oh, I remember, his name is Horse,” I say.
    “Yeah,” Art says. His voice cracks.
    “And the driver, that’s Elk,” I say.
    Art just nods his head. He looks at me bug-eyed.
    “Those guys are super famous,” I say. “Famous for Indians, at least. I saw them both in this documentary about the civil war in Red River. You know, that’s where IRON was protecting traditional Indians from the evil Indian tribal government dudes. What were they called?”
    “ HAMMER ,” Art says.
    “Yeah, HAMMER ,” I say. “What was that short for?”
    “Nothing, they just call themselves HAMMER .”
    “Yeah, IRON versus HAMMER. It was like a goddamn monster movie,” I say.
    Art’s eyes are wide like he’s looking at a ghost. And he’s looking at me, so I guess he is looking at a ghost. He looks over at Horse and Elk, the IRON dudes in the other car. They’re talking to each other. But we can’t hear them through the glass. Everybody has secrets.
    “Oh, yeah, man, I remember now,” I say. “Those HAMMER guys were killing everybody back then. And then the FBI joined up with HAMMER and started killing people, too. Man, when was that, back in 1975 or