by Glen Tate
“You can get up now,” Bennington said in Spanish. “It’s safe.”
Lucia got up and saw men with guns all around her outside the car. She was scared, but the men were different than the men who had taken her. They looked like Army men or hunters.
“Ramirez!” Dan yelled. “Need you here.”
Manny Ramirez, one of the guards, came running over to the car.
Dan said, “I need a translator.” Manny nodded.
“Tell this little girl that she’s safe here,” Dan said, “we will take care of her, that we will protect her, and that the bad men can’t get her because we’re good police, not the bad ones.”
Manny went to the back seat and told Lucia this. She nodded. She wasn’t sure she believed them, but she had no choice. So far, they had not hurt her and they were getting her away from the courthouse where the white haired man was.
“Get some females over here to help the girl,” Dan yelled. “She needs them around. She’s had enough men around her for a while.”
Dan went to the front seat to talk to Bennington. “Thanks, man. Seriously. Thanks. We’ll take good care of her. We have plenty of Mexican families here who speak her language and would love to take in a wonderful little girl like this.”
Bennington was silent. Hearing “wonderful little girl” just made him feel worse about what had happened. The Mexican girl was so innocent and Winters—and who knows who else—had done such horrible things to her. Bennington started to cry.
Dan let him cry. Bennington needed to get it out. Finally, Bennington got a hold of himself.
“This didn’t happen,” Bennington said. “I did not come here—understand?”
“Clearly,” Dan said. “You did not come here. The girl washed up on the beach and was lucky to be alive.”
Bennington pointed to all the guards who saw his patrol car there. “None of these people saw a thing!” He screamed. He was in a rage against Winters and afraid for his own life at the same time.
“Yep,” Dan said, realizing that Bennington needed to scream. “These people don’t leave Pierce Point and we don’t let them use phones or text. We have several…” Dan almost said “sensitive sightings that they can’t be talking about.” But he didn’t. “We have several security measures in place,” Dan said instead.
Bennington was getting freaked out that there were so many witnesses at Pierce Point. He had just reacted and grabbed the little girl and driven out there. He hadn’t thought everything through. Now he was.
Dan could tell that Bennington was worried about the witnesses.
“Hey!” Dan yelled to the guards. “All hands, come here.”
All the guards came running over to Dan at the gate.
“You didn’t see this,” Dan said. “Understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant!” they all yelled back.
“Who saw this?” Dan asked.
No one said a word.
“You guys keep a lot of secrets out here,” Dan said. “Any one of you talks about this and the girl and the brave man in this car will die. Who wants that to happen?”
Not a word.
“The girl washed up on the beach,” Dan said. “How’d the girl get here?” He yelled.
“Washed up on the beach,” the guards yelled back.
Dan looked at Bennington and smiled.
Bennington was reassured. Not totally worry-free, but reassured. He knew he had taken this Winters thing to the next level. Stealing Winters’ little girl meant Winters would come after him for sure. If Winters found out. And he probably would over time.
Bennington decided to go ahead with what he’d been thinking about for a long time.
Chapter 244
Better Late Than Never
(December 5)
“I need to talk to Rich,” Bennington said to Dan. “Privately.”
Dan nodded. “Rich is on his way.”
“I need to talk to Rich out of the sight of people,” Bennington said. “I’ll back up and go park out on the road over there.”
“Sure,” Dan said and motioned for Bennington to back up from the gate.
“It’s cool,” Dan said, using the frequency Sniper Mike monitored. “No shoot. Repeat: No shoot.”
Three clicks of the microphone came back which meant Mike heard and understood. Dan switched his radio back to the normal frequency.
By this time, Rich had come. Dan filled him in and told him Bennington wanted a private meeting away from the eyes of the gate guards.
Rich walked over to Bennington’s car, which was parked on the side of the road headed toward Frederickson. Bennington was in his car. Rich walked up behind the car with his hands out to his side so that Bennington knew he was not a threat. Rich opened the passenger door and got in.
“Thanks, man,” Rich said and pointed back to the gate and the girl. “That was awesome.”
Bennington just nodded. He had something important to say to Rich, something that had been building for months, something that could easily get Bennington killed.
“Winters is a monster,” Bennington said. “You don’t know all the things he’s doing. To innocent people. Like that little girl.” Bennington’s eyes filled with tears again. “You don’t know, man.”
Rich just let Bennington take his time. Whatever it was he was going to say couldn’t be rushed.
“I’m going to kill him,” Bennington blurted out. He looked Rich right in the eye and said, “I need your help.”
Rich just nodded; he’d almost expected this conversation. He knew Bennington from before the Collapse when both of them were Sheriff’s deputies. He had spent a lot of time with him getting the medical supplies and turkey. He had a “cop’s intuition” that Bennington was a good man and therefore couldn’t remain loyal to Winters. Rich couldn’t blame him for taking several months to come to this conclusion. Bennington had to live under Winters’ thumb; he didn’t have the luxury of living in Pierce Point with a gate, guards, the Team, and ultimately the 17th Irregulars to protect him.
“I should have left the force like you did,” Bennington said and started to cry. He pounded his fists on the steering wheel, getting some demons out of him. Then he regained his composure.
“I should have never been a part of any of this,” he continued. “Never. But it didn’t seem that bad at first. I thought I was protecting people by stayin’ on the force.”
“You did what you could,” Rich said sincerely. “That’s the past. Now is the present. You’re going to do something about it now. That’s what counts. Welcome to the Patriots.” Rich extended his hand and shook Bennington’s.
Bennington smiled. That was exactly what he needed: to be welcomed to the good guys’ side for a change, not lectured for doing bad things in the past.
“Better late than never,” Bennington said, trying to rationalize why he’d been working for the bad guys for so long. He took a deep breath.
“So, how do we do it?” Bennington asked. Rich knew that he meant killing Winters.
At first, Rich worried that Bennington was recording the conversation in some kind of sting operation. He then quickly thought that would be pretty unlikely, although he couldn’t fault himself for having that reaction.
Regardless, if this were a setup, Rich was done for, anyway, so he might as well roll with it. Rich didn’t want to waste this prime opportunity to turn a police officer close to Winters into a Patriot spy… and assassin.
In the past, Rich had sensed that Grant and the Team thought perhaps he wasn’t one hundred percent down with the Patriots. This came from his hesitancy to throw every Pierce Point guard and asset into the 17th Irregulars.
If they had thought this, they were dead wrong. Rich was an Oath Keeper before it was cool. He quit the Sheriff’s Department in disgust over the corruption before the budget cuts had eliminated his job. Rich wanted nothing more than to end Winters’ reign of corruption, but he wanted to do it in a way that created as little risk as possible for the civilians at P
ierce Point. An inside job by Bennington was the way to do that.
Speaking freely, abandoning any fears about a running tape recorder, Rich and Bennington talked about how to kill Winters. It would be tricky, with all that security around him. A frontal assault was out of the question. Rich never let on about the 17th Irregulars at Marion Farm, naturally.
“An inside job,” Bennington said. “As in: me.”
Rich paused, acting like this was the first time he had thought about this. “How?”
“I have total access to the place,” Bennington said. “I’m armed. Do the math.”
“How would you get out?” Rich asked.
Bennington shrugged. He was just fine with dying. “Just walk out of there in all the confusion?”
“What about all the others in the courthouse who need to go?” Rich asked. Bennington paused for a moment and said, “Good point. We shouldn’t waste this opportunity on just Winters. There are at least a dozen of his little bastards who need to be offed, too.” Bennington started naming names and counting them off on his fingers. He got to fifteen.
“I’ve got an idea,” Bennington said and immediately shared it with Rich who then smiled. It was brilliant; violent, but brilliant.
“Do you need anything from me?” Rich asked.
“Nope,” Bennington said. “Just when the best time to do it would be.”
“What do you mean?” Rich asked, playing dumb.
“You know,” Bennington said, “like when there’s a Patriot offensive or something. You need to take out the cops and gangs in the town ahead of the march.”
Maybe Bennington was setting him up, Rich thought. “What Patriot offensive?” He asked.
“Oh, I don’t know of one,” Bennington said. “Just if there was one, you know?”
“No, I don’t know,” Rich said. “How would I know?”
Bennington could tell that Rich was getting defensive.
“No big deal, man,” Bennington said, putting his hands up. “I’m just saying that if you found out that there was a particularly good time for Winters and his pals to be eliminated, you should let me know. That’s all.”
Bennington seemed sincere to Rich, but still, Rich wasn’t about to let him know that he could easily find out about any coming Patriot offensive.
“Okay,” Rich said. “If I find out that there’s a particularly good time, I’ll let you know. I’ll try to come into town and tell you personally.” He was lying. On the off chance this was a set-up, the last thing Rich was going to do was go to town where it would be easy to arrest him.
“But if I can’t tell you personally,” Rich continued, “I’ll call it in on the CB—using a code, of course.”
Bennington nodded. Rich and everyone else used CB channel 9 for emergencies. Rich and Bennington developed a code. Rich would call in on 9 to get Bennington and then they would both switch to channel 11 to really talk. The CBs were easily monitored by everyone, so even talking on Channel 11 meant using a code.
“Code phrase will be,” Rich said, “that I have a ruptured gall bladder.”
“And when you tell me you have a ruptured gall bladder,” Bennington said, “You’ll then tell me when you’re coming into the hospital. The date and time, right?”
Rich nodded. “The date and time I give you,” Rich said to Bennington, “will be the date and time of when a hit would be optimal.”
Bennington nodded. The simplest plans were the best, and this was pretty simple.
Rich could tell Bennington was drained. He had been conspiring to commit murder and had rescued a little girl from a rapist, who happened to be his boss who could kill him at the snap of a finger.
“Hey, man,” Rich said, “you did two good deeds today: the girl and the gall bladder plan. Thanks.”
Bennington needed that. His heart was in the right place—he had just compromised his morals for so long that it had led him to the situation he was now in. It was time for him to make amends. He was in a position to do a tremendous amount of good. To make up for all the bad things he’d gradually become involved with.
“Something big is comin’,” Rich said, letting his guard down for a moment. “You’re going to be part of it.”
Bennington smiled.
Chapter 245
Faint Whiff of Smoke
(December 8)
Joyous. Excited. Brimming with life and energy. That’s how Grant Matson felt that Sunday afternoon. He had totally put the Lisa stuff out of his mind. He was getting even better at that, which kind of scared him.
It was a cold and rainy December day in Western Washington State. However, inside the equipment shed of Marion Farm, it was warm, bright, and happy. The room buzzed with the vibe that everyone in there would soon be doing the most important things in their lives; glorious, fabulous, historic things, together.
Grant finished up his Sunday dinner. Deer steaks, mashed potatoes, and all the brownies he could eat. Anything with sugar in it had become quite rare, especially all-you-can eat sugary treats. Being full and warm and surrounded by these guys made Grant feel like a million bucks.
Ted stood up and got the room’s attention. “We have some great news, ladies and gentlemen,” he said and motioned for Grant to stand up. “Lt. Matson will let everyone know what it is.”
Grant smiled and announced to the unit, “The 17th Irregulars are now fully formed. HQ told us today that we are officially a combat-ready unit.” Everyone applauded. They had been working up to this goal. And, by headquarters continuing to send them troops and supplies to get up to full strength, they had the seal of approval from the brass. HQ wouldn’t waste resources on a bunch of clowns out in the woods playing Army.
Grant was brimming with pride as he told the unit that the 17th was at full strength: 104 soldiers. They had lost two, Paul and Tony Atkins. Tony was still recovering from his amputation in the Pierce Point medical clinic. It was hard on Ted and the others in the unit to not be able to visit Tony, but they knew they couldn’t because that would blow their cover. Tony understood, too. He was doing alright, given the circumstances. Grant visited him regularly and passed messages back and forth between him and the 17th.
To Grant’s pleasant surprise, plenty of supplies were coming in from Boston Harbor. When Ted asked the Pierce Point leaders to host a guerilla unit, he had assured Grant that the unit would be supplied by the Patriots and would not draw on Pierce Point’s resources. Grant had assumed this was half true and half a sales pitch. But HQ was keeping its part of the bargain. Plenty of food, though much of it was bland, like corn bread, pancakes, biscuits, beans, and rice, was coming in to feed the 17th.
A decent amount of ammo was also coming in. It wasn’t as much as anyone would like, but ammo was an extremely valuable commodity. By early December, they were at the five hundred rounds per soldier level they needed, but they didn’t have much more than that. Each soldier had a rifle and at least four magazines. The frontline troops, like the Team and the infantrymen, had more magazines. They also had pouches or tactical vests to carry them.
The 17th didn’t have many grenades or other explosives. These were in extremely short supply. Besides, the 17th weren’t assault troops who needed to blast their way in. Other units—regular units and special operations—would do that. The 17th were irregulars who would occupy and pacify an enemy city and get it up and running as soon as possible. Also, even if the 17th had plenty of explosives, they had no training facility to teach people how to use them. They were in a secret location; loud explosions would draw attention in Pierce Point.
Communications were going smoothly and Jim Q. was working out marvelously. There were enough handheld radios and batteries for the guard stations, most of the squad leaders, and Ted, Sap, and Grant. They had just enough.
Medical supplies were a little thin, mainly because HQ diverted the usual supplies from the 17th to units that didn’t have a clinic a few miles away. Luckily, the 17th Irregulars had the unique luxury of being able to use Pi
erce Point’s medical clinic for emergencies.
Morale was high. The men and women of the unit knew they were doing something important. They knew they were better off than almost everyone in the surrounding areas. In fact, most of them realized they were far better off, especially compared to those in Olympia and Seattle. There were many firsthand stories about the gangs and the government doing whatever they wanted in the cities. The national news was even bleaker. Chicago was basically a giant prison. New York was largely depopulated, mostly from people leaving in droves, but also from people dying. Los Angeles was pretty much burned to the ground. The rioting and looting that started at the beginning of the Collapse never relented there. Many people fled, but some stayed behind because they believed that the government would make things better “soon.”
While the major cities were absolutely terrible, the rest of the country was doing relatively okay for the most part, though it varied greatly depending on region.
The Northeast was almost entirely comprised of major cities and was the Loyalists’ center of power. It was in awful shape. The Northeast’s rural areas were overrun with people fleeing the cities. It was ugly.
The South was doing quite well. Some of the rural areas of the South were actually prospering. There was no real threat of the FUSA troops or police bothering them. Free enterprise sprang up and took off—as it always does when it’s allowed to.
Race relations were good in the South. In isolated rural areas with almost no blacks, there were still problems, but this was a definite exception to the rule. And in some areas that were majority black, there was some anti-white violence. But overall, things were much better than the most would have expected.
There was one exception to the relatively good shape the South was in: the large cities down there. They were in horrible shape. Loyalists from throughout the South flocked to the large cities where their people were in charge, like Houston.
