“Don’t use it all up for one flush,” Keller had told them.
Smith had explained that the water was drawn from a well and they had to conserve it. Thus, buckets of standing water were placed next to every toilet.
Cummins had wondered whose job it was to keep them filled
That most likely meant that if there was any running water around here, it was at a premium.
He’d slept in his clothes, which suited him just fine. His main concern was that someone might see the money belt, which he still had secreted around his ample waist. The Glock had been under his pillow all night. He looped his leather belt through the belt loops and cinched it, then reached under the pillow for the Glock, securing it inside his pants. He wished he had a pancake holster. He thought again about the M-60 he’d seen as they’d driven in and the sentries with the AR-15s. And Keller had his big Desert Eagle in a glossy black leather holster this morning. The man’s fatigues looked crisp and pressed and he’d been wearing the old-fashioned black leather boots, Cummins had no doubt they were spit-shined.
But enough of that, he thought as he stooped down to grab the plastic bucket and wait his turn at the latrine. He grabbed his shaving kit just in case there was some water available that the hillbilly king and queen hadn’t used up in one flush.
The McNamara Ranch
Phoenix, Arizona
Wolf and Yolanda had just finished showering and cleaning up, with Yolanda complaining about having to wear the same clothes from yesterday.
“I told you we shoulda stopped by the hotel last night,” she said. “At least I could’ve grabbed my overnight stuff.”
“Just be glad I had a spare toothbrush,” Wolf said as his cell phone rang. He picked it up and saw that it was Mac.
“You two up?” McNamara asked.
“Yep. And raring to go. What’s the plan?”
“Come on over to the house. Kasey’s fixing us all breakfast.”
He hung up.
“She ain’t gonna try to poison me, is she?” Yolanda asked with a sly grin.
“She’s had it kind of rough lately,” Wolf said and proceeded to tell her about Shemp’s unfortunate death and the ongoing custody problem involving Chad.
Yolanda was silent as they crossed the expanse of asphalt to the ranch house.
Inside Wolf saw Mac, Ms. Dolly, and Brenda all seated around the big dining room table. McNamara had had it quickly installed to change the appearance of the room after the recent, brutal scene. To his surprise, Wolf saw Kasey laughing as she was making the rounds with a pair of well-stocked plates. Ms. Dolly was laughing too, like they’d just shared a really funny joke.
McNamara pointed to the two chairs on his right and Wolf and Yolanda sat down.
“I hope you like your eggs scrambled,” Kasey said to her. “With so many for breakfast it was easier to fix them that way.”
Wolf was again surprised to see the smile on Kasey’s face after the less than hospitable welcome she’d shown the P-Patrol the last time.
“That’d be fine,” Yolanda said. “You need some help serving?”
Kasey declined, in demure fashion, and began preparing two more plates.
Yolanda’s joke about the poison came floating back to him.
When had that been? All of five minutes ago?
It was as if he’d stepped into an alternate reality, like on that old TV show, The Twilight Zone. Things were a little bit off kilter, and everybody, all of whom hated each other, was getting along.
But I’m not complaining, he thought, and realized again how much Kasey had changed in recent days.
“We got to figure our plan for grabbing this guy,” McNamara said. “We’re going to have to infiltrate this FROZ place.”
Wolf nodded as Kasey set two plates replete with eggs, bacon, and toast in front of him and Yolanda. The smell was tantalizing.
“Kasey’s been researching the situation for us,” McNamara said. His plate was practically empty now as were Ms. Dolly’s and Brenda’s. He picked up his coffee cup and asked Kasey what she’d found out.
Kasey set her big laptop on the counter next to the stove and turned it so they could all see the screen. Then she made a few clicks with the wireless mouse and the screen illuminated with the frozen image of a slender man with jet black hair and a goatee standing in front of a city street blockaded by several cement barricades. Kasey clicked the mouse again and the image came to life.
“We’re here in Bendover at the scene of FROZ,” the bearded man said, stepping back and allowing the cameraman to pan over the three-foot-high barriers. They were covered with a variety of crudely painted bits of graffiti. The barrier in the center had FROZ spray-painted in ungainly large capital letters that looked like they were scribbled by a recalcitrant grammar school student.
“FROZ,” the reporter continued, “is an acronym for the Freedom Restricted Occupational Zone. It began ten days ago when a large group of protesters took to the downtown business section of Bendover and declared it theirs, banning police from entering this six-block square area and declaring themselves a separate and sovereign entity.”
Crowds of people milled about on the other side of the barriers and numerous port-a-potties lined the street. The cameraman apparently moved in closer to the barriers and zoomed in on a group of young people sitting in a circle singing an undecipherable tune.
“The leader of FROZ,” the reporter said, “Or at least one of them, has declared that they have no intention of leaving or altering their stance until all of their demands have been met. Just what those demands are has yet to be formally established but they are said to include abolishing the police department, amnesty for all those in prisons, and free food and medical care for everyone, including the large homeless population, which has doubled in size since the occupation started. The main leader, Zeus, as he calls himself, has purportedly met with both the mayor and city council members to discuss the situation but no agreement has been reached at this time.”
The grainy footage of a black man with a huge network of dreadlocks streaming from his head and dressed in a flowing dark overcoat filled the screen. He appeared to be addressing a substantial crowd of onlookers. The image shifted back to the reporter who said that the mayor’s office could not be reached for comment at this time but also added that the mayor was in negotiations with all of the leaders of FROZ and hoped to have a solution worked out shortly.
Kasey froze the screen on the laptop.
“That’s allegedly your man,” she said. “Zeus, aka Booker Nobles. He’s twenty-six years old, with seventeen arrests ranging from shoplifting to armed robbery and attempted murder. He’s served no prison time and he’s currently wanted under five different aliases in three states.”
“Show us a close-up of him,” McNamara said.
She clicked the mouse again and a full facial mug shot appeared of Nobles without the dreadlocks.
Wolf hadn’t liked the way Kasey had said “allegedly.”
“We’re sure that this guy’s the same one we’re after?” Wolf asked. “Manny mentioned something about a reporter who located him.”
“That’s him on the video,” Kasey said. “Dickie Deekins.”
Yolanda laughed and tried to disguise it as a cough.
“Yeah,” Ms. Dolly said. “I know, girl. How we supposed to place any credulity in a guy with a name like that?”
“Why’s he diming him out?” Brenda asked.
“He’s got his reasons,” Kasey said. “Watch.”
She held up the mouse and gave it another click. The mug shot vanished and another grainy video started playing on the screen. This one was obviously taken at night and showed a bunch of graffiti-laden boarded-up windows, piles of garbage littering the street, and two vehicles with their windows broken and tires removed. What appeared to be a homeless man wallowed on the street, defecating and puking.
“This is Dickie Deekins coming to you from inside FROZ,” the man’s voice on the video sai
d in a hushed whisper. He wasn’t visible and the camera kept panning around, going back to focus on the homeless man. “We’ve come into the FROZ zone tonight to get a glimpse of what’s actually going on. They’re restricting entry at the main entrance so we had to—”
The screen went suddenly blank and after several seconds the image resumed but it was obvious that the camera now lay on its side recording an ongoing scene in front of it. The same black-bearded man who’d done the other segment was being held by two men, while a third man was in front delivering slaps and punches.
“Hey, don’t,” Dickie Deekins yelled. “Please. I’m on your side.”
“That why you be sneaking around in my hood, motherfucker?” a deep, baritone voice said. “What I tell you about sneaking ’round in here without permission?”
“No, please,” Deekins said. “I wasn’t—”
His words were truncated by a sharp body-blow. The puncher followed up with several more, then stepped back and delivered a kick to Deekins’s groin.
“Ouch,” Ms. Dolly said. “That looks like it hurt.”
“It does,” McNamara said. “Been there, done that.”
Ms. Dolly flashed him a wry grin.
Kasey froze the image.
“As you can see,” she said. “Deekins harbors some animosity regarding Mr. Nobles, aka Zeus.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Wolf said. “That was some beat-down.”
“What I’m concerned about,” Kasey said, “is another report I’ve found about shootings going on in the Zone. It’s rumored that Nobles has his own contingent of armed security with him at all times.”
“Which is why we’re flying up with our own little arsenal,” McNamara said. “Hell, me and Steve have been dealing with a lot worse adversaries than those punks.”
“And, honey,” Ms. Dolly said. “Me and the gals ain’t gonna let nothing happen to your daddy. Take that to the bank.”
“You’re strictly on the perimeter on this one,” McNamara said. “Steve and me will be the ones going inside.”
“Hey,” Yolanda said. “Me and Brenda are probably the only ones out of the five of us that can infiltrate this place without being noticed.”
“No creo que pueden ir en todas partes sin mucho notados,” Wolf said.
Brenda and Ms. Dolly both laughed.
“If it’s one thing I can’t stand,” McNamara said, “it’s not being in on one of your smart-ass comments. You want to repeat that for the rest of us?”
“He said they can’t go anywhere without being noticed,” Kasey said with a smile. “And I’m inclined to agree, as pretty as they both are.”
Brenda and Ms. Dolly exchanged glances with Wolf, who was equally surprised. They’d both made somewhat derogatory comments in Spanish about Kasey in the past, due to her less than friendly attitude, and now realized she might have understood what had been said.
But now it looked as if all was forgiven.
“We can discuss all that on the plane tomorrow,” McNamara said. “We’ll need to do some recon once we get there.” He stood up. “Come on, clear these dishes and let’s get ready.”
I guess that means we’re shipping out, thought Wolf. As he stood, McNamara leaned close.
“Don’t forget tomorrow morning we got to pick up the clone,” he said.
Wolf wondered if both of them would fit in the same box.
Former Fort Lemand
Southern Arizona
Cummins waited in the hallway of the biggest of the brick buildings. This one had half a dozen fans rotating at full speed and they actually created a half-decent breeze. He held his hand next to the crack in the closed double doors and could feel a minute stream of air conditioning. This was the room into which Keller had ushered Smith and Riley. Cherrie was down the hallway sitting with the kid. For a brief moment, Cummins fantasized about pulling out his Glock, taking both her and the kid as hostages, and commandeering one of the cars to beat feet out of this nightmare. But the way these mercenary morons were armed, he doubted he would get very far.
No, he thought. I’m going to have to do some reconnoitering first.
There had to be a back way out and once he found it, then he’d grab the kid and make his escape. And then he’d do the trade off with Wolf.
Luckily, no one had taken his cell phone or his Glock. Once he’d finished this meeting with the Colonel here, another phone call would be in order, but it would have to be when he was safe and secure. That bastard, Keller, was like Big Brother—always watching.
The doors opened and the three men came out. Riley and Smith were beaming as they marched in step with military precision. They nodded a greeting to Cummins and proceeded down the hallway toward Cherrie and the kid.
“Your turn, fat boy,” Keller said. “But first, give me that gun you got stuck in your belt.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Keller’s expression was flat and hard. “Nobody sees the Colonel with a weapon, unless they got special clearance.”
He patted the handle of the Desert Eagle.
Not wanting the big goon to extract the Glock himself, lest he notice the money belt, Cummins pulled the weapon from his beltline and handed it to Keller, butt first.
“You’ll get it back when we’re sure you’ve been properly cleared,” Keller said. “Square your shirt away.”
Properly cleared? What the hell did that mean?
In the meantime, Cummins thought, while he did his best to make himself more presentable, I’ll be walking around with a bunch of armed fanatics.
Keller’s nostrils flared a bit as he gave him a final once-over, then he opened the door and whispered, “Stand at attention when we get up there.”
The room was exceptionally large and had several rows of chairs set up facing the front. Numerous portable air-conditioners were stationed around the room and hummed steadily. Cummins appreciated the cool air. Directly in front of them, on a podium about forty yards away, a big man with a blockish build stood with his back to them, his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing the same black BDUs that Keller, Smith, and Riley had on. As Cummins drew closer he saw the man had three concentric rings of whitish sweat stains under each arm and, despite the reasonably effective air-conditioning, he was working on a fourth. It almost looked decorative. His hair was dark and clipped militarily short. An enormous red banner affixed to the wall directly behind him. In the center of the banner was a white circle outlined in black, and in the center of the circle was a huge black swastika.
Cummins was mildly shocked.
Were these guys Nazis?
He studied it closer as they marched toward the front.
No, it wasn’t a swastika per se. It had been altered somewhat. One of the arms on the pattern had an arrow at its end. And there was something else about it that looked different but Cummins wasn’t sure what it was.
A lectern was off to the side of the podium and a long table was on the floor in front of it. The boxes that housed the stolen money reposed upon the table.
He and Keller marched up to the long table and Keller gave the command to halt.
Cummins did and remained at attention. The large man turned and Cummins saw that he had the silver insignias of a full-bird colonel on the collar of his blouse. His name tag, also in silver, read BEST. His face was block-like, too, with deep creases extending from both of his nostrils to frame his mouth. The man’s eyes were pale blue and piercing.
“Captain Keller reporting, sir,” Keller said, whipping his hand up in a full military salute.
Cummins didn’t know whether to do the same and then figured he’d better.
This movement elicited a slight twitch of the large man’s eyebrows, then his lips curled into a faint smile momentarily. He returned the salute and said, “Stand at ease.”
Cummins started to relax but Keller immediately slipped into a parade rest position.
Assuming that pose was a bit difficult, but Cummins did his best. He
was feeling nervous that his gut was protruding as much as it was and hope to God that the colonel didn’t notice his protruding neoprene back brace, which concealed the money belt.
“Captain Keller has told me a bit about you,” Best said. “You have military experience, do you not?”
“Yes, sir,” Cummins said. “Second lieutenant, army. Military intelligence. Did a tour in Iraq, sir.”
This was stretching his truncated, politically arranged three-month deployment a bit but Cummins didn’t figure this outsider would have any way to check it out. Besides, he hoped to be out of here sooner rather than in the movement for the long haul.
Best’s head bobbled up and down minutely.
“Very good,” he said. “Captain Keller also tells me you’ve made a substantial monetary commitment to the Brigade as well as assisting in this fundraising operation.”
Fundraising operation? That was an interesting euphemism for armed robbery and murder. But why mince words?
“That is correct, sir.”
Best studied him for several seconds without saying anything and then began speaking.
“In the bygone days of our once-great country, patriots had to rally against the forces of tyranny. They did this by forming a militia, an army of minutemen, who would work their fields but be ready to grab their weapons and fight at a moment’s notice.” He paused and got a serene look on his face. “We are now at a crossroads once again, when patriots like Captain Keller and myself must take the helm and lead the way through a tempest of anarchy and recrimination that threatens to topple our precious republic.”
Best turned and held his hand up toward the immense banner.
“I saw you studying our insignia as you came in, Lieutenant Cummins. Tell me, what do you think of it?”
Not sure how to answer, Cummins said, “Impressive, sir.”
This brought a smile to Best’s lips. “I know what you’re probably thinking.” He paused again, letting the silence settle over the three of them for a moment, then said, “Nazis. Am I correct?”
Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3) Page 16
