Living while black part three
they persisted, she should have called security.
Violence—even provoked—was unacceptable.
The footage cut to Samantha’s father speaking briefly to reporters.
“She was raised right,” he said. “But dealing with racism is hard.”
Jonah muted the TV.
For a moment, no one spoke.
“So,” Tara said finally, “she was right.”
“Yes,” Jonah replied.
“But not right enough,” Lena added.
Jonah nodded. “That’s always the catch.”
They sat there in silence, watching the muted image of Samantha being led away—not to prison, not free either.
“Do everything right,” Jonah said quietly. “Except the part where you’re human.”
No one disagreed.
Outside, traffic moved on.
Inside, the lesson settled—again.
/
Jonah is riding his bike through the shopping center parking lot when he notices a woman standing near her car. She looks completely worn down—thirty-eight years old, hair pulled back messily, eyes tired. Her three kids—two boys and a girl—are loud, restless, tugging at her sleeves and talking over one another.
She spots Jonah and hesitates, then calls out.
“Excuse me, sir—have you ever watched kids before?”
Jonah stops, surprised. “No,” he admits. “But depending on the pay, I’d be willing.”
She lets out a breath of relief. “I’ll give you $300 total. Just stay in the shopping center. I don’t care where you go—stores, park, arcade, whatever. I just need peace for a bit.”
She clearly doesn’t recognize him. She’s new to the city, not up on local news, doesn’t know he’s wealthy.
Jonah agrees.
He takes the kids inside, stopping first at a grocery store to buy some sweets—donuts, M&Ms, gingerbread. Not to eat yet. Just later.
That’s when the woman approaches.
She’s about five feet tall, a little plump. She wears a short-sleeved clover-patterned dress, black heeled sandals, green lipstick shaped like a clover, bleach-blonde hair, and unnaturally bright sapphire-blue eyes.
He’s just finished picking up a few sweets for later when a short, plump woman approaches. She wears a clover-patterned dress, green lipstick, black heeled sandals, and has bleached blonde hair and sapphire-blue eyes.
She does not address Jonah.
Instead, she crouches slightly toward the children.
“Are you in trouble?” she asks gently.
“Is this man taking you somewhere you’re not supposed to go?
Did he take you from somewhere you weren’t supposed to leave?”
The kids respond immediately—overlapping, firm, and confident.
“No.”
“He didn’t take us.”
“He’s our babysitter.”
“And you’re wrong to assume something’s wrong just because his skin color doesn’t match ours.”
The woman freezes.
She clearly expected fear. Confusion. Naivety.
Instead, she looks shocked—not by danger, but by how un-naïve they are.
Her suspicion sharpens rather than fades.
She finally turns to Jonah.
“If you’re really their babysitter,” she says coldly, “give me their mother’s phone number so I can confirm.”
Jonah’s jaw tightens.
“I’m not giving you anything.”
That, to her, is proof.
She immediately turns back to the kids.
“Then you give me your mommy’s phone number.”
All three refuse.
“No.”
“We’re not giving you anything.”
“You’re being a racist meanie.”
The woman bristles.
“You don’t understand. Adults are just trying to keep you safe.”
She convinces herself they’ve been coached. Or manipulated. Or brainwashed. Her assumptions multiply.
That’s when a security guard approaches—a white woman with auburn hair in a ponytail, wearing a blue uniform and black cap.
“What’s going on here?”
The woman launches in.
“I saw this Black man with these white children and something didn’t add up. He refused to give me their mother’s phone number, and the kids won’t either. I was just trying to make sure they weren’t being taken or trafficked.”
The guard turns to Jonah.
“Sir?”
Jonah explains calmly that he’s the babysitter and that the mother is shopping nearby.
The guard looks back at the woman.
“Did the children appear scared?”
“No.”
“Trying to get away?”
“No.”
“Any injuries? Asking for help?”
“No, but—”
“But you assumed something was wrong anyway.”
The guard sighs.
“I still need to verify with the parent.”
Jonah understands the position she’s in and hands over Aurora’s number.
The guard steps aside and calls.
“Yes, ma’am… Jonah Phillips… watching your children… yes… the concern arose solely because of race…”
She pauses, listening.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll hand her the phone.”
The phone is given to the woman.
Her eyes widen immediately.
She tries to explain. Interrupt. Justify herself.
Aurora doesn’t let her.
After a few seconds, the woman shoves the phone back at the guard and runs off.
The guard hands the phone back to Jonah.
Aurora’s voice is furious.
“She ran because I demanded her employer’s number,” Aurora says.
“I told her I’d get the security footage and leak it publicly if she didn’t. She panicked.”
The guard nods grimly.
“I’ll document the incident. Footage is already flagged.”
Aurora arrives shortly afterward, apologizing repeatedly and slipping Jonah extra money for the trouble.
They leave together.
Not relieved.
Just tired.
/
Jonah’s muscles tensed as the woman pressed her demands, the children calling her a “racist meanie” and standing firm. His heart was pounding, every instinct screaming that he could end this here, violently if he wanted. But he noticed a man standing nearby, watching the scene unfold—a middle-aged man who hadn’t said a word until now.
The man stepped forward slightly, hands raised in a calm gesture. “Sir,” he said, his voice steady but quiet so only Jonah could hear, “if you’re ever watching kids in the future… make sure there’s another white adult around. A family member, a friend, someone. Doesn’t matter who—as long as they’re visibly present. Because if someone like that woman pushes you too far… if you lose your temper… well, you’re Black, and the assumptions will follow you. Even if the kids aren’t yours, even if you’re right… people like her can get you in serious trouble. Maybe even jail.”
Jonah’s eyes narrowed. Of course. That’s always the calculus. Always walk on a knife-edge because someone else’s assumptions could ruin your life. His fury didn’t lessen—if anything, it flared hotter—but Richard’s words forced him to clamp down, to redirect the energy. He could not afford the consequences. Not today, not ever again.
He glanced around. Other bystanders—the woman with the stroller, the man at the fountain, a few teenagers—were watching carefully, their expressions a mix of anger and sympathy. One young girl whispered to her mother, pointing, and Jonah caught the mother’s tight nod: she sees it too.
He forced himself to breathe, to relax his hands, to grip the sweets bag instead of clenching fists. Just stay calm. Just stay calm. He could feel the woman’s panic at his refusal to hand over information. He could feel the children’s quiet pride in calling her a racist meanie. He could feel every eye around them acknowledging who was in the right—and who was not.
Still, Richard’s advice lingered. Another adult nearby. Someone who will confirm the facts. Even if they don’t know the story, even if they just stand there. That’s your shield. That’s what keeps you from ending up like Jonathan Brown… accused, restrained, punished… simply for existing in the wrong skin while protecting someone else’s children.
Jonah’s glare softened fractionally—not his fury, just his immediate tension—enough to let the security guard intervene and call Aurora. He didn’t relax entirely. He couldn’t. The world didn’t allow him to. But for now, the children were safe, and the woman’s assumptions had been exposed.
He let himself think: I’ll never stop being furious. But I can survive. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe—without losing myself to their ignorance.
/
Jonah’s gaze hardened as he walked, remembering the stakes of this situation. Nearby, a woman watched him closely, her 10-year-old son by her side. Jonah could see she knew exactly what was happening.
“My name’s Polly,” she said quietly. “And I need you to understand the danger you’re in. When I was seven, a Black man named Kyle was babysitting me. Everything was fine, until some entitled woman blocked his path, yelling that no white girl would ever be left alone with a big Black man. She accused him of kidnapping me.”
Jonah’s hands clenched at the memory of the parallel he was living through.
“Kyle,” Polly continued, “gently shoved me aside so I wouldn’t be in the way. Then he kicked the racist woman in the chest, breaking her ribs. He grabbed her neck and choked her. The damage to her vocal cords was permanent—she couldn’t speak again. Security and bystanders pulled him off. Kyle went to prison for assault, decades ago, for defending himself against her racist assumptions. He showed no remorse—not because he was cruel, but because he was forced into a corner by her ignorance.”
Jonah’s jaw tightened. Exactly. This is why I have to restrain myself. Because the world only sees a Black man with authority—or in this case, with children—and assumes the worst. They don’t see provocation. They don’t see the truth.
Polly nodded toward Jonah. “That woman earlier—the one blocking your path—you were inches from repeating history. If you lose your temper, you could end up like Kyle. You’re strong, but one mistake and assumptions alone can ruin your life. I’ll be here to step in if it escalates.”
Jonah exhaled slowly, feeling a mix of relief and simmering fury. The bystanders watched silently, a few shifting uneasily, prepared to intervene if things got out of hand. The children stayed close, trusting Jonah implicitly, unaware of the gravity of the adult tensions around them.
Jonah glanced at Polly. I’ll survive this. I always do. And I’ll protect these kids without letting ignorance dictate my actions—or their safety.
/
The Florida sun was just beginning to filter through the curtains of the hotel room, but Lena and Tara barely noticed it. Their beach vacation had been meant to be a reprieve, a few days of warm sand and quiet waves while Jonah relaxed back home. Instead, the TV in the corner of the room blared the morning news, and the footage caught their eyes.
“Is that…?” Lena muttered, squinting at the screen.
Tara’s hand shot out, gripping the edge of the desk. “No. No way.”
On the screen, the infamous shopping center footage played: Jonah calmly handling the three children while a middle-aged woman accused him of kidnapping because he was Black and the kids were white. The kids themselves had called the woman a “racist meanie,” while Jonah had refused to give out the mother’s phone number. The security guard stepped in, verifying the story, and the woman had fled after Aurora demanded the footage and her employer’s number.
Lena’s jaw tightened. “They think he has to justify everything because of the color of his skin.”
Tara’s fists clenched, and she slammed them onto the desk. “After everything we’ve gone through with him… after what we deal with just protecting him… and now this? Again?!”
Lena leaned forward, eyes cold and sharp. “Do they even understand who they’re dealing with? That man handled it perfectly. He stayed calm when any other Black man would’ve—” She paused, glancing at Tara, “—might’ve ended up in jail or worse. People like that… they think assumptions are facts.”
Tara rubbed her temples. “I swear, if I were there… I don’t care if it’s Florida, New York, or anywhere else. Someone makes those assumptions about him, I’d—” She caught herself, breathing heavily. “…I’d have to restrain myself. I know it. And God help anyone who provoked the kids.”
Lena grabbed the remote, pausing the footage. She pointed at the screen. “Look at this. The woman blocks his path, interrogates the children, refuses to listen to him, ignores facts. And yet he keeps his composure. Aurora had to step in and demand the footage. Demand it. Because otherwise, he’d have to deal with people like that on his own. And if he lost his temper…” Lena let the words hang. “He’d be in prison. And they’d call it justified.”
Tara’s eyes burned with anger. “Exactly. We know what that feels like. The world doesn’t care about the provocation, the danger, the protection. Just the skin color. Just the assumptions. This… this is why we’re always on edge when he’s around, why we have to be ready. But seeing it like this…” Her voice dropped. “It makes me want to—”
“Don’t,” Lena said sharply. She took a deep breath. “We protect him differently now. We’ve got to think strategy, not vengeance. But mark my words… if that woman—or anyone like her—ever steps within his path again, she’s going to wish she’d never opened her mouth.”
Tara sank into the chair, still simmering. “I know. I’m furious. But I also respect how he handled it. That kind of composure… most people can’t do that under pressure. Most people would’ve lost it. And now the whole country sees it.”
Lena shook her head, exhaling slowly. “We may be on vacation in Florida, but the reality of being around him… it’s everywhere. Racism doesn’t take a holiday. And neither do we. If he’s calm in the face of this, it’s because we’ve got his back. And that’s all that matters.”
Tara glanced back at the paused footage, her expression hard as steel. “All that matters is making sure we’re ready next time. Because there will be a next time.”
/
Jonah, Lena, and Tara had just arrived in Raleigh, North Carolina, for a business trip. The air was warmer than back home in Albany, but Jonah felt the same tension he always did when out in public — the memory of the last incident still fresh.
As they pulled up to a small downtown plaza, a police vehicle rolled alongside them. The officer, a tall man in uniform, stepped out, his hand resting lightly on the patrol car. His wife sat in the passenger seat, watching the trio carefully.
“Afternoon,” the officer said politely, but his gaze was sharp. “Mind if I ask… what’s the relationship here?”
Jonah didn’t hesitate. “These two are my bodyguards.”
The officer smiled faintly, relief in his eyes. “Good to hear,” he said. “Because unfortunately, a lot of folks around here… they haven’t quite evolved. They may not be openly hostile, but they still carry attitudes about interracial friendships, or interracial marriages. Doesn’t matter if they’d deny it — some people just haven’t changed.”
He looked at Lena and Tara. “Do you two mind telling me exactly what your ethnic backgrounds are? Irish, German, Polish…?”
Lena and Tara exchanged a glance, then stated their origins plainly.
The officer’s eyes widened. “Damn. You really hit the jackpot, man,” he said to Jonah, his tone half-joking but entirely sincere. “You should announce this loudly. Trust me — no one in this town would dare mess with two former Russian special operations soldiers.”
Before Jonah could protest, the officer went back to his patrol car and returned moments later with a bullhorn. “Here,” he said. “Do the honors. Let people know who’s here, and that they’re not to be messed with.”
Jonah took the bullhorn, feeling slightly ridiculous, but also seeing the necessity. “Attention, citizens of Raleigh,” he announced firmly. “These are my bodyguards, Lena and Tara. I am a businessman, they are ex-SPETZNAZ Russia’s equivalent of the Green Berets. I strongly advise you not to mess with them.”
The officer nodded approvingly. “Good day,” he said, climbing back into his vehicle with his wife.
As Jonah, Lena, and Tara continued their business around town, the effect was immediate. People kept their distance, whispers following in their wake. Children stared wide-eyed, parents subtly pulled them closer, and even casual pedestrians gave the trio a wide berth.
Lena and Tara exchanged grim looks. “I hate that this works,” Lena muttered.
Tara shook her head. “It’s effective, yes… but it’s just reinforcing the stereotype. Dangerous Russian soldiers. Not exactly the message I want to send.”
Jonah shrugged, still holding the bullhorn, feeling a twinge of guilt. “Better safe than sorry,” he said quietly. “For now, it keeps us safe. But yeah… it’s a shame people need to fear the stereotype to respect us.”
They walked on, the town surprisingly compliant, but Lena and Tara’s expressions remained hard. The power of the stereotype protected them, but also reminded them of the world’s persistence in relying on fear and ignorance rather than reason.
/
The coffee shop was calm, the smell of espresso and baked goods mingling with the occasional sizzle of pizza. Jonah was scrolling on his phone at the table, Lena and Tara on either side, when movement at the counter caught their attention.
A man, probably in his late 40s, was staring openly at them. His eyes lingered too long on Lena and Tara, then darted to Jonah, suspicion written all over his face. He muttered something under his breath about the “two women” and “the man with them.”
Lena’s eyes narrowed. Tara’s jaw tightened. They exchanged a glance — silent communication honed from years in Russian special forces.
Jonah sighed, already bracing himself. “I’m warning you,” he muttered quietly. “They’re not… well, you know…”
Before he could finish, the man took a step closer. “Excuse me, are these… uh… your employees?” he asked, voice uncertain but accusatory, as if Jonah might be holding some criminal operation behind a legitimate front.
Lena’s patience snapped. She leaned forward, fingers brushing the grip of her Magnum revolver, holstered but clearly visible. Tara mirrored her movement, both guns resting snugly against their hips.
The man froze. His mouth opened, then closed. The weight of the silent threat was enough.
“Do we look intimidated?” Tara asked, voice low, measured, and chilling. “Do we look like we’ve been coerced or are here against our will?”
The man’s eyes flicked nervously between the two white women and the black man sitting calmly, though his fingers twitched near his wallet.
“Those are our legally owned firearms,” Lena said, tone sharp. “We are not to be messed with. If you have questions about what we’re doing here… you’ll step back and think twice before opening your mouth again.”
Jonah held his hands up, trying to calm the situation. “It’s… it’s fine. Really, it’s fine.”
The man swallowed hard, suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. He muttered an apology, his gaze darting nervously around the shop as other customers watched the confrontation unfold. Lena and Tara’s stance was enough — cold, precise, and utterly uncompromising.
He backed away, muttering, “Sorry… didn’t mean… I was just…” before turning and leaving the coffee shop hastily, bumping into a chair on his way out.
Jonah exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. “I hate that this is necessary,” he said, voice tight. “That people… just assume the worst.”
Lena holstered her revolver, shaking her head. “I hate it too, but I’m done being polite with idiots.”
Tara mirrored her movement. “Every second you hesitate, they get more comfortable making assumptions. That’s how Jonah ends up dealing with problems he shouldn’t have to face.”
The rest of the customers returned to their drinks and food, the air buzzing softly with murmurs about what had just happened. Jonah looked at Lena and Tara, his expression half-relieved, half-worried. “I… I don’t know how you do it.”
Lena gave a faint smirk. “We’re trained for this. But yes… it’s exhausting, having to use the reputation of ex-SPETZNAZ just to get people to leave us alone.”
Tara leaned back in her chair, eyes scanning the room. “Better them scared of us than us being forced to react violently. But don’t get me wrong… if that guy hadn’t left when he did…” Her voice trailed, but the threat hung in the air.
Jonah nodded, silent, understanding exactly what she meant. For Lena and Tara, patience had limits — and anyone trying to weaponize racism against them had just crossed the line.
Violence—even provoked—was unacceptable.
The footage cut to Samantha’s father speaking briefly to reporters.
“She was raised right,” he said. “But dealing with racism is hard.”
Jonah muted the TV.
For a moment, no one spoke.
“So,” Tara said finally, “she was right.”
“Yes,” Jonah replied.
“But not right enough,” Lena added.
Jonah nodded. “That’s always the catch.”
They sat there in silence, watching the muted image of Samantha being led away—not to prison, not free either.
“Do everything right,” Jonah said quietly. “Except the part where you’re human.”
No one disagreed.
Outside, traffic moved on.
Inside, the lesson settled—again.
/
Jonah is riding his bike through the shopping center parking lot when he notices a woman standing near her car. She looks completely worn down—thirty-eight years old, hair pulled back messily, eyes tired. Her three kids—two boys and a girl—are loud, restless, tugging at her sleeves and talking over one another.
She spots Jonah and hesitates, then calls out.
“Excuse me, sir—have you ever watched kids before?”
Jonah stops, surprised. “No,” he admits. “But depending on the pay, I’d be willing.”
She lets out a breath of relief. “I’ll give you $300 total. Just stay in the shopping center. I don’t care where you go—stores, park, arcade, whatever. I just need peace for a bit.”
She clearly doesn’t recognize him. She’s new to the city, not up on local news, doesn’t know he’s wealthy.
Jonah agrees.
He takes the kids inside, stopping first at a grocery store to buy some sweets—donuts, M&Ms, gingerbread. Not to eat yet. Just later.
That’s when the woman approaches.
She’s about five feet tall, a little plump. She wears a short-sleeved clover-patterned dress, black heeled sandals, green lipstick shaped like a clover, bleach-blonde hair, and unnaturally bright sapphire-blue eyes.
He’s just finished picking up a few sweets for later when a short, plump woman approaches. She wears a clover-patterned dress, green lipstick, black heeled sandals, and has bleached blonde hair and sapphire-blue eyes.
She does not address Jonah.
Instead, she crouches slightly toward the children.
“Are you in trouble?” she asks gently.
“Is this man taking you somewhere you’re not supposed to go?
Did he take you from somewhere you weren’t supposed to leave?”
The kids respond immediately—overlapping, firm, and confident.
“No.”
“He didn’t take us.”
“He’s our babysitter.”
“And you’re wrong to assume something’s wrong just because his skin color doesn’t match ours.”
The woman freezes.
She clearly expected fear. Confusion. Naivety.
Instead, she looks shocked—not by danger, but by how un-naïve they are.
Her suspicion sharpens rather than fades.
She finally turns to Jonah.
“If you’re really their babysitter,” she says coldly, “give me their mother’s phone number so I can confirm.”
Jonah’s jaw tightens.
“I’m not giving you anything.”
That, to her, is proof.
She immediately turns back to the kids.
“Then you give me your mommy’s phone number.”
All three refuse.
“No.”
“We’re not giving you anything.”
“You’re being a racist meanie.”
The woman bristles.
“You don’t understand. Adults are just trying to keep you safe.”
She convinces herself they’ve been coached. Or manipulated. Or brainwashed. Her assumptions multiply.
That’s when a security guard approaches—a white woman with auburn hair in a ponytail, wearing a blue uniform and black cap.
“What’s going on here?”
The woman launches in.
“I saw this Black man with these white children and something didn’t add up. He refused to give me their mother’s phone number, and the kids won’t either. I was just trying to make sure they weren’t being taken or trafficked.”
The guard turns to Jonah.
“Sir?”
Jonah explains calmly that he’s the babysitter and that the mother is shopping nearby.
The guard looks back at the woman.
“Did the children appear scared?”
“No.”
“Trying to get away?”
“No.”
“Any injuries? Asking for help?”
“No, but—”
“But you assumed something was wrong anyway.”
The guard sighs.
“I still need to verify with the parent.”
Jonah understands the position she’s in and hands over Aurora’s number.
The guard steps aside and calls.
“Yes, ma’am… Jonah Phillips… watching your children… yes… the concern arose solely because of race…”
She pauses, listening.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll hand her the phone.”
The phone is given to the woman.
Her eyes widen immediately.
She tries to explain. Interrupt. Justify herself.
Aurora doesn’t let her.
After a few seconds, the woman shoves the phone back at the guard and runs off.
The guard hands the phone back to Jonah.
Aurora’s voice is furious.
“She ran because I demanded her employer’s number,” Aurora says.
“I told her I’d get the security footage and leak it publicly if she didn’t. She panicked.”
The guard nods grimly.
“I’ll document the incident. Footage is already flagged.”
Aurora arrives shortly afterward, apologizing repeatedly and slipping Jonah extra money for the trouble.
They leave together.
Not relieved.
Just tired.
/
Jonah’s muscles tensed as the woman pressed her demands, the children calling her a “racist meanie” and standing firm. His heart was pounding, every instinct screaming that he could end this here, violently if he wanted. But he noticed a man standing nearby, watching the scene unfold—a middle-aged man who hadn’t said a word until now.
The man stepped forward slightly, hands raised in a calm gesture. “Sir,” he said, his voice steady but quiet so only Jonah could hear, “if you’re ever watching kids in the future… make sure there’s another white adult around. A family member, a friend, someone. Doesn’t matter who—as long as they’re visibly present. Because if someone like that woman pushes you too far… if you lose your temper… well, you’re Black, and the assumptions will follow you. Even if the kids aren’t yours, even if you’re right… people like her can get you in serious trouble. Maybe even jail.”
Jonah’s eyes narrowed. Of course. That’s always the calculus. Always walk on a knife-edge because someone else’s assumptions could ruin your life. His fury didn’t lessen—if anything, it flared hotter—but Richard’s words forced him to clamp down, to redirect the energy. He could not afford the consequences. Not today, not ever again.
He glanced around. Other bystanders—the woman with the stroller, the man at the fountain, a few teenagers—were watching carefully, their expressions a mix of anger and sympathy. One young girl whispered to her mother, pointing, and Jonah caught the mother’s tight nod: she sees it too.
He forced himself to breathe, to relax his hands, to grip the sweets bag instead of clenching fists. Just stay calm. Just stay calm. He could feel the woman’s panic at his refusal to hand over information. He could feel the children’s quiet pride in calling her a racist meanie. He could feel every eye around them acknowledging who was in the right—and who was not.
Still, Richard’s advice lingered. Another adult nearby. Someone who will confirm the facts. Even if they don’t know the story, even if they just stand there. That’s your shield. That’s what keeps you from ending up like Jonathan Brown… accused, restrained, punished… simply for existing in the wrong skin while protecting someone else’s children.
Jonah’s glare softened fractionally—not his fury, just his immediate tension—enough to let the security guard intervene and call Aurora. He didn’t relax entirely. He couldn’t. The world didn’t allow him to. But for now, the children were safe, and the woman’s assumptions had been exposed.
He let himself think: I’ll never stop being furious. But I can survive. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe—without losing myself to their ignorance.
/
Jonah’s gaze hardened as he walked, remembering the stakes of this situation. Nearby, a woman watched him closely, her 10-year-old son by her side. Jonah could see she knew exactly what was happening.
“My name’s Polly,” she said quietly. “And I need you to understand the danger you’re in. When I was seven, a Black man named Kyle was babysitting me. Everything was fine, until some entitled woman blocked his path, yelling that no white girl would ever be left alone with a big Black man. She accused him of kidnapping me.”
Jonah’s hands clenched at the memory of the parallel he was living through.
“Kyle,” Polly continued, “gently shoved me aside so I wouldn’t be in the way. Then he kicked the racist woman in the chest, breaking her ribs. He grabbed her neck and choked her. The damage to her vocal cords was permanent—she couldn’t speak again. Security and bystanders pulled him off. Kyle went to prison for assault, decades ago, for defending himself against her racist assumptions. He showed no remorse—not because he was cruel, but because he was forced into a corner by her ignorance.”
Jonah’s jaw tightened. Exactly. This is why I have to restrain myself. Because the world only sees a Black man with authority—or in this case, with children—and assumes the worst. They don’t see provocation. They don’t see the truth.
Polly nodded toward Jonah. “That woman earlier—the one blocking your path—you were inches from repeating history. If you lose your temper, you could end up like Kyle. You’re strong, but one mistake and assumptions alone can ruin your life. I’ll be here to step in if it escalates.”
Jonah exhaled slowly, feeling a mix of relief and simmering fury. The bystanders watched silently, a few shifting uneasily, prepared to intervene if things got out of hand. The children stayed close, trusting Jonah implicitly, unaware of the gravity of the adult tensions around them.
Jonah glanced at Polly. I’ll survive this. I always do. And I’ll protect these kids without letting ignorance dictate my actions—or their safety.
/
The Florida sun was just beginning to filter through the curtains of the hotel room, but Lena and Tara barely noticed it. Their beach vacation had been meant to be a reprieve, a few days of warm sand and quiet waves while Jonah relaxed back home. Instead, the TV in the corner of the room blared the morning news, and the footage caught their eyes.
“Is that…?” Lena muttered, squinting at the screen.
Tara’s hand shot out, gripping the edge of the desk. “No. No way.”
On the screen, the infamous shopping center footage played: Jonah calmly handling the three children while a middle-aged woman accused him of kidnapping because he was Black and the kids were white. The kids themselves had called the woman a “racist meanie,” while Jonah had refused to give out the mother’s phone number. The security guard stepped in, verifying the story, and the woman had fled after Aurora demanded the footage and her employer’s number.
Lena’s jaw tightened. “They think he has to justify everything because of the color of his skin.”
Tara’s fists clenched, and she slammed them onto the desk. “After everything we’ve gone through with him… after what we deal with just protecting him… and now this? Again?!”
Lena leaned forward, eyes cold and sharp. “Do they even understand who they’re dealing with? That man handled it perfectly. He stayed calm when any other Black man would’ve—” She paused, glancing at Tara, “—might’ve ended up in jail or worse. People like that… they think assumptions are facts.”
Tara rubbed her temples. “I swear, if I were there… I don’t care if it’s Florida, New York, or anywhere else. Someone makes those assumptions about him, I’d—” She caught herself, breathing heavily. “…I’d have to restrain myself. I know it. And God help anyone who provoked the kids.”
Lena grabbed the remote, pausing the footage. She pointed at the screen. “Look at this. The woman blocks his path, interrogates the children, refuses to listen to him, ignores facts. And yet he keeps his composure. Aurora had to step in and demand the footage. Demand it. Because otherwise, he’d have to deal with people like that on his own. And if he lost his temper…” Lena let the words hang. “He’d be in prison. And they’d call it justified.”
Tara’s eyes burned with anger. “Exactly. We know what that feels like. The world doesn’t care about the provocation, the danger, the protection. Just the skin color. Just the assumptions. This… this is why we’re always on edge when he’s around, why we have to be ready. But seeing it like this…” Her voice dropped. “It makes me want to—”
“Don’t,” Lena said sharply. She took a deep breath. “We protect him differently now. We’ve got to think strategy, not vengeance. But mark my words… if that woman—or anyone like her—ever steps within his path again, she’s going to wish she’d never opened her mouth.”
Tara sank into the chair, still simmering. “I know. I’m furious. But I also respect how he handled it. That kind of composure… most people can’t do that under pressure. Most people would’ve lost it. And now the whole country sees it.”
Lena shook her head, exhaling slowly. “We may be on vacation in Florida, but the reality of being around him… it’s everywhere. Racism doesn’t take a holiday. And neither do we. If he’s calm in the face of this, it’s because we’ve got his back. And that’s all that matters.”
Tara glanced back at the paused footage, her expression hard as steel. “All that matters is making sure we’re ready next time. Because there will be a next time.”
/
Jonah, Lena, and Tara had just arrived in Raleigh, North Carolina, for a business trip. The air was warmer than back home in Albany, but Jonah felt the same tension he always did when out in public — the memory of the last incident still fresh.
As they pulled up to a small downtown plaza, a police vehicle rolled alongside them. The officer, a tall man in uniform, stepped out, his hand resting lightly on the patrol car. His wife sat in the passenger seat, watching the trio carefully.
“Afternoon,” the officer said politely, but his gaze was sharp. “Mind if I ask… what’s the relationship here?”
Jonah didn’t hesitate. “These two are my bodyguards.”
The officer smiled faintly, relief in his eyes. “Good to hear,” he said. “Because unfortunately, a lot of folks around here… they haven’t quite evolved. They may not be openly hostile, but they still carry attitudes about interracial friendships, or interracial marriages. Doesn’t matter if they’d deny it — some people just haven’t changed.”
He looked at Lena and Tara. “Do you two mind telling me exactly what your ethnic backgrounds are? Irish, German, Polish…?”
Lena and Tara exchanged a glance, then stated their origins plainly.
The officer’s eyes widened. “Damn. You really hit the jackpot, man,” he said to Jonah, his tone half-joking but entirely sincere. “You should announce this loudly. Trust me — no one in this town would dare mess with two former Russian special operations soldiers.”
Before Jonah could protest, the officer went back to his patrol car and returned moments later with a bullhorn. “Here,” he said. “Do the honors. Let people know who’s here, and that they’re not to be messed with.”
Jonah took the bullhorn, feeling slightly ridiculous, but also seeing the necessity. “Attention, citizens of Raleigh,” he announced firmly. “These are my bodyguards, Lena and Tara. I am a businessman, they are ex-SPETZNAZ Russia’s equivalent of the Green Berets. I strongly advise you not to mess with them.”
The officer nodded approvingly. “Good day,” he said, climbing back into his vehicle with his wife.
As Jonah, Lena, and Tara continued their business around town, the effect was immediate. People kept their distance, whispers following in their wake. Children stared wide-eyed, parents subtly pulled them closer, and even casual pedestrians gave the trio a wide berth.
Lena and Tara exchanged grim looks. “I hate that this works,” Lena muttered.
Tara shook her head. “It’s effective, yes… but it’s just reinforcing the stereotype. Dangerous Russian soldiers. Not exactly the message I want to send.”
Jonah shrugged, still holding the bullhorn, feeling a twinge of guilt. “Better safe than sorry,” he said quietly. “For now, it keeps us safe. But yeah… it’s a shame people need to fear the stereotype to respect us.”
They walked on, the town surprisingly compliant, but Lena and Tara’s expressions remained hard. The power of the stereotype protected them, but also reminded them of the world’s persistence in relying on fear and ignorance rather than reason.
/
The coffee shop was calm, the smell of espresso and baked goods mingling with the occasional sizzle of pizza. Jonah was scrolling on his phone at the table, Lena and Tara on either side, when movement at the counter caught their attention.
A man, probably in his late 40s, was staring openly at them. His eyes lingered too long on Lena and Tara, then darted to Jonah, suspicion written all over his face. He muttered something under his breath about the “two women” and “the man with them.”
Lena’s eyes narrowed. Tara’s jaw tightened. They exchanged a glance — silent communication honed from years in Russian special forces.
Jonah sighed, already bracing himself. “I’m warning you,” he muttered quietly. “They’re not… well, you know…”
Before he could finish, the man took a step closer. “Excuse me, are these… uh… your employees?” he asked, voice uncertain but accusatory, as if Jonah might be holding some criminal operation behind a legitimate front.
Lena’s patience snapped. She leaned forward, fingers brushing the grip of her Magnum revolver, holstered but clearly visible. Tara mirrored her movement, both guns resting snugly against their hips.
The man froze. His mouth opened, then closed. The weight of the silent threat was enough.
“Do we look intimidated?” Tara asked, voice low, measured, and chilling. “Do we look like we’ve been coerced or are here against our will?”
The man’s eyes flicked nervously between the two white women and the black man sitting calmly, though his fingers twitched near his wallet.
“Those are our legally owned firearms,” Lena said, tone sharp. “We are not to be messed with. If you have questions about what we’re doing here… you’ll step back and think twice before opening your mouth again.”
Jonah held his hands up, trying to calm the situation. “It’s… it’s fine. Really, it’s fine.”
The man swallowed hard, suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. He muttered an apology, his gaze darting nervously around the shop as other customers watched the confrontation unfold. Lena and Tara’s stance was enough — cold, precise, and utterly uncompromising.
He backed away, muttering, “Sorry… didn’t mean… I was just…” before turning and leaving the coffee shop hastily, bumping into a chair on his way out.
Jonah exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. “I hate that this is necessary,” he said, voice tight. “That people… just assume the worst.”
Lena holstered her revolver, shaking her head. “I hate it too, but I’m done being polite with idiots.”
Tara mirrored her movement. “Every second you hesitate, they get more comfortable making assumptions. That’s how Jonah ends up dealing with problems he shouldn’t have to face.”
The rest of the customers returned to their drinks and food, the air buzzing softly with murmurs about what had just happened. Jonah looked at Lena and Tara, his expression half-relieved, half-worried. “I… I don’t know how you do it.”
Lena gave a faint smirk. “We’re trained for this. But yes… it’s exhausting, having to use the reputation of ex-SPETZNAZ just to get people to leave us alone.”
Tara leaned back in her chair, eyes scanning the room. “Better them scared of us than us being forced to react violently. But don’t get me wrong… if that guy hadn’t left when he did…” Her voice trailed, but the threat hung in the air.
Jonah nodded, silent, understanding exactly what she meant. For Lena and Tara, patience had limits — and anyone trying to weaponize racism against them had just crossed the line.
31-35, M