by Matt Hilton
‘Get in the van, Dar. I’m fine.’
‘Fine, huh, boss?’ Even when he smiled, Darley looked like a bird weighing up a juicy worm.
‘Just get in the goddamn van.’
Samuel Gant was hurting like he’d been kicked by a mule and stung by a swarm of yellow-jackets, and he wasn’t in an easy-going frame of mind. The only saving grace was that the flak jacket he was wearing had saved him from the full force of the buckshot when Griffiths’ hired gunman shot him. The jacket had taken the brunt of both barrels, but some of the spreading shot had peppered his thighs and arms. Checking himself after Darley had dragged him clear, he’d discovered a massive haematoma on his ribs and all four limbs looked like they’d been drilled by weevils. And his mangled ear stung like a sonofabitch. For two days he’d been laid up by fever, and he still wasn’t certain that the doctor Hicks supplied had removed all of the shot from his system. Maybe somewhere along the way he’d die from lead poisoning, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him now. He wanted to be around when Hicks’ plan came to fruition; at least he’d know that the future was brighter than he was feeling just now.
‘I’m surprised that we haven’t been told to go and finish off the job,’ Darley said. He started the black van while Gant climbed in, the tattooed man taking his time and moving very gingerly. He knew how his boss felt; his head was still pounding from where he’d been struck unconscious and he didn’t think that all the Tylenol in the world would be enough to shift the pain. That fucker who’d smacked him around was going to hurt bad before Darley was happy again. ‘Why don’t we just walk into the hospital, shoot his guards and then kill Griffiths once an’ for all?’
‘We’ve talked about this before, Dar. It’s enough that we’ve confirmed where Griffiths was taken and that he’s fully sedated. In his present state he’s no threat to the operation. Hicks has capitalised on that and has moved the timescale forward. You should be happy he still wants us there for the big day after our righteous fuck-up!’
‘I suppose we can always come back later and finish what we started with Griffiths.’
‘If everything goes to plan, we won’t have to come back,’ Gant said. ‘Anything that Griffiths has on Hicks will be old news by then. Now get a move on, I want to be back in New York before nightfall.’
Pulling out of the lot behind the motel where they’d been holed up, Darley sent the van east, picking up Route 80 towards New Jersey, lost in his own thoughts for a few seconds. Drizzle streaked the windscreen like a greasy film that the wipers struggled to contend with. Finally he looked across at Gant. The tattooed man had rested his skull on the headrest and had closed his eyes, his lids flickering in time with his ongoing pain. Darley didn’t want to disturb him, but there was something that had just come to mind. ‘When you say Hicks has moved the timing forward, how soon are we talking about?’
‘Very soon. Days, I’m not sure,’ Gant muttered without opening his eyes.
‘Won’t Hicks’ statement lose a little meaning?’
‘How’d you come to that conclusion?’
‘We’re months away from November ninth, I thought Hicks wanted to mark the anniversary.’
Gant shrugged, turning his head away from Darley in a none too subtle attempt to shut him up. ‘Maybe he’d prefer to have his own date on the calendar. Anyway, I’m beginning to think that Kristallnacht Two is a poor name for what we’re planning. There’ll be more for the Jews to worry about than broken glass, Dar, much more.’
Darley nodded glumly, letting out a sigh that roused Gant. The tattooed man looked over at him. His yellow eyes were the proverbial piss holes in snow. ‘By the sound of things you’re worried about that.’
‘Just concerned that the statement we’re making is a little too big. One-Four, brother, all the way. But that shit’s poison to everyone, Gant.’
One-Four. Code for the fourteen words in the racist skinhead pledge: we must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.
Gant grunted. ‘Yeah, it’s poison, and that’s the whole point. No Jew-boy will ever tread there again.’
‘Neither will any of us whites.’
‘Darley, the white race is on the verge of extinction, and if we don’t strike now we’re doomed. Unless we do this thing there won’t be a white man setting his foot any place, because we’ll all be gone. So don’t go quoting the One-Four to me without remembering exactly what it means. We have to tear down US society and rebuild it as a segregated nation with us whites back in control. That ain’t going to happen while the Jews are at the head of the wave of colour that’s engulfing us. Other people don’t care, and that won’t change until we show them what’s really happening here. When we make this statement, when we make our stand, then every white man will rise up at our sides and finally do what needs doing.’
Darley had heard similar anti-Semitic propaganda for years, and he didn’t need reminding. He hated what was happening in his country, how whites were being bred out of existence, all of them becoming grey men. He knew that the Jews were behind the conspiracy to infect the nation, using feminism and liberalism to take away the white man’s masculinity. Hell, the Jews were behind the immigration laws that took away all the manufacturing jobs that were the mainstay of the white-skinned, blue-collar classes, and he was certain, too, that they were guiding the blacks, the poisoners of the white race with all their drugs and genetically inferior blood. He hated the Jews with as much passion as Gant or Hicks or any of them, but still, what Hicks had in mind was extreme even for a radical extremist like him.
‘I grew up there, Gant…’ he whined.
Gant slammed his hands on the dashboard. ‘Are you turning into a fucking race-mixing left-winger, Dar? Don’t you see that’s exactly what I’m talking about? You can’t even walk through your own neighbourhood without feeling like you’re the fucking foreigner. You want to just hand over the place you grew up to those bastards? White people built this country, and we can sure as hell tear it down overnight.’ Gant blinked slowly, sitting back in his chair. When he continued his voice was steadier, and held more promise.
‘Marches and demonstrations are old school. They didn’t work. Burning niggers on crosses didn’t work. We have to do something much bigger if we ever hope to get the mongrel races out of here. There’s only one solution: kill every one of them that’re here, and make sure they can never return. That’s the only way we can start over.’
The little man still wasn’t sure. A bomb he was OK with, but this?
It was as if Gant could read his mind. ‘McVeigh tried with a bomb in Oklahoma and achieved nothing. We have to do something with more impact than that. That’s why Hicks has declared war against the destructive forces that are taking over our country. We all know that the Big Brother central state is destroying us. We have to see our government, and the Jews controlling it, for what it is… our mortal enemy. We have to strike against them where it really hurts. Ultimately nothing changes in this world without violence, you have to see that.’
‘Course I do, Gant. I’m with you all the way, but it’s one thing kerb-stomping a nigger, another doing something as… as brutal as this.’
Gant laughed. ‘Darley, the white man is the most brutal, the most vicious creature on the face of the earth. And this is the white man’s way of showing that when we get our backs up, then we won’t stop at nothing to reclaim what’s rightfully ours.’
Darley concentrated on the road, pretending that the hammering rain demanded his silence. He reflected again on his pledge, the One-Four, and was as staunch a follower as ever. The only problem: Manhattan was a part of this white nation, but he couldn’t see how it could figure in any future, let alone that of his people or their children. There’d be no reclaiming it when Manhattan became a no-go area for everyone.
Chapter 34
‘Ever feel like we’re being poked and prodded like a bug in a Petri dish? That we’ve been cultivated all this time, till we’re a more virulent s
train than the disease itself?’
That caused me to blink at the morose face of my friend. ‘Christ, Rink, that’s heavy thinking for an ignoramus brute like you.’
Rink nudged my ribs with an elbow, taking the gibe for what it was. ‘You know exactly where I’m coming from, Joe.’
‘That I do, Rink. That I do.’
We were back in the FBI chopper, swooping low over the wooded hills of northern Pennsylvania, en route for Hertford. Vince had sat up front this time, alongside the pilot. It was as much an excuse to nurse his painful jaw without looking a wimp as it was an opportunity to conduct business in private. I was glad that the FBI-cum-Arrowsake stooge was out of the way. It gave us the opportunity to talk about Walter’s denouement without having to worry about our words reaching the wrong ears.
‘I’m even surprised that Arrowsake chose to show its face in this,’ Rink said.
‘They didn’t have to show up; I already had no option but follow instructions,’ I said.
‘You coulda chose to go to prison.’
‘Yeah, right, like I was going to do that? Seriously, the FBI offered me a deal. Stop Carswell Hicks and my involvement would be buried. Now you and I both know that the FBI doesn’t have the power to offer a deal like that, so it was obvious that someone else was behind it. Soon as I heard Walter’s name mentioned I knew. Still, I have to admit it’s strange that the commanders made things official by giving their personal nod of approval.’
‘Maybe they don’t trust that frog-gigger, Vince, to get the job done.’
‘There’s more than Vince dealing with this. Rest assured. Homeland Security, NSC, FBI, CIA; everyone will have their own team on it. Plus, there’ll be others from Arrowsake.’
‘It’s not a good feeling knowing that there are others from our unit out there.’
‘Not from our unit, Rink. These are a new breed.’
‘Yeah, I get that, but you know where I’m coming from. And what that might mean.’
‘You think they’re using us as scapegoats and they’re prepared to sacrifice us?’
‘Like I said, germs in a Petri dish. If we’re their superbugs, you can bet your sweet cheeks they’ve designed an antidote.’
‘If that was the case, Walter would have warned us.’
‘Walter would sell us down the line as quick as that!’ Rink snapped his fingers. ‘Don’t know how you can trust him after the way he’s used us all these years.’
‘We’ve used him, too.’
Rink didn’t make comment, he knew that without Walter’s intervention we’d both be doing hard time, or dead.
‘I suppose you’re right. Walter has helped us, but it was always for his own reasons. Maybe he was even ordered to help us, I don’t know. Perhaps that’s why Arrowsake have chosen now to show their faces, so that we realise who it is we’re really obligated to.’
‘I don’t feel like we owe them a thing. They made monsters outa us, then they kicked us loose like we were dog shit on their shoes, remember?’
Dreams still tormented me: the screams of accusation, the faces of the countless dead, all those sent howling into my nightmares because Arrowsake pointed at them and ordered me to kill. In those dreams I was under a bruised sky where the clouds were the shifting faces of the damned, striding across the blood-soaked earth, the arms of my victims reaching for me, tearing at my clothing and flesh, the ground sucking at my boots, trying to draw me into its embrace. Sometimes I’d give in to the inevitable, and wake varnished in sweat, but other times I’d fight my accusers, blasting their faces apart with my fists and my gun that seemed to have a never-ending supply of ammunition. While doing so I’d laugh hysterically, like it was the greatest enjoyment imaginable. Yes, Rink was right when he said that Arrowsake had made a monster of me.
‘Walter’s still our friend.’ There was finality to my statement.
‘I know that you love the old fart, Hunter, but you’ve gotta see him for what he really is. Where his loyalties lie.’
‘I just don’t see him standing by and doing nothing to warn us. Not if you’re right and we’re not coming back from this.’
‘If what he says is true, then there’s little hope of that happening anyway.’
‘There’s no need for you to come along, Rink. I’m the one who has the threat of prison hanging over me.’
The suggestion didn’t merit an answer. Rink shook his head. ‘I vote we tell Arrowsake to go fuck themselves, then we disappear. We could do that, you know.’
Rink was as serious as an April Fool prank. He grinned, shook his head again, resigned to the fact that we were buried in Arrowsake’s plan as deeply as an Arkansas tick in a bull’s ass. It didn’t matter that we were being manipulated into becoming assassins again; I had a personal reason for wanting Carswell Hicks and his followers dead. I’d sworn to end the threat to the Griffiths family and to get that done even Rink could see that it was better we worked with Arrowsake than against them.
The weather front coming down over the Great Lakes had finally spent itself over the Alleghenies, and Hertford was spread out below us, twinkling wetly under the winter sun. Hertford City Medical Center was a series of whitewashed buildings on the northern side of town, and the chopper banked that way, heading directly for the hospital’s helipad. I adjusted my coat. Covering my weapons was a necessity, but I also suspected that the sun didn’t hold much warmth yet.
Disembarking from the helicopter, we attracted a crowd of onlookers who were familiar with the local air-ambulance but not this sleek airship. Maybe they were expecting the men in black, because they seemed singularly nonplussed when Rink and I stepped out. Vince followed, and he did look more like the popular image of an undercover agent. It helped when he thumbed on some obligatory dark shades and strode purposefully for the hospital, his mouth set in a tight line. We shared an amused glance at his expense.
Don Griffiths was no longer ensconced in the Intensive Care Unit, but had been shifted to a private room. It was as much for the privacy of other patients as for Don, due to the number of FBI personnel who’d come and gone over the last few days. There was a guard on his door, who moved away when Vince gave him the signal. Don was lying in his bed, eyes closed, with the soft beep of machines marking his progress back to recovery. Don looked twenty years older than the last time I’d seen him. I turned to Vince. ‘Give me a few minutes, will you?’
‘I want to know everything he says.’
‘Fair enough, but he won’t say anything with you standing there.’
Vince scowled at the old man in the bed. ‘It doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything whether I’m here or not.’
Rink took Vince by the elbow. ‘C’mon. You can go get a coffee with your old pal, Rink.’
‘Oh, so we’re friends now?’
‘So long as you’re buying.’
Vince pointed a finger at me. ‘ Everything he says. OK?’
‘As long as you get me a coffee, too. Strong as it comes, extra shot of espresso.’
Rink ushered the FBI agent away, closing the door behind him. When I was sure that Vince was out of earshot, I said, ‘You can stop pretending now, Don, the feebie’s gone.’
Don slowly opened his eyes, as though checking the coast was clear. He shifted himself on the bed, groaning as much as the springs. ‘How did you know I was awake?’
I nodded at the cardiac monitor, how closely together the spikes and corresponding beeps had become. ‘Bit of a giveaway. Luckily Vince was too busy listening to his own voice to notice.’
‘There’s no fooling you, Hunter.’
Don’s words held more meaning than even he’d intended. His cheeks flushed, a stark contrast to his white hair and beard.
‘I need to know it all, Don. Everything. You ready to talk?’ The question held room for only one reply. Don closed his eyes. He was ordering his words, and I gave him the time. There was a jug of water on a bedside table and I poured a glass, held it out to the old man. ‘Here, take a dr
ink.’
Don sipped, holding the glass in both hands like a chalice. The glass was something he could concentrate on, to help steady himself.
‘When I first came to see you, you mentioned that you’d received an email,’ I began. ‘I didn’t attach too much importance to it at the time, but it’s been there niggling away at the back of my mind. I assumed that you had received a message — perhaps intended for someone else — and had read into it something that wasn’t even there. But when events overtook us, I never bothered asking who it was from or how many times you’d got mail prior to that because by then, well, it was a given that the mail had come from Hicks or someone close to him. I was wrong, wasn’t I?’
Don’s mouth made a tight gash and he dipped towards the glass again. He licked his lips, trying to get his mouth to work in time with his thoughts. ‘You’re partly right, Hunter. The messages did come from someone close to Hicks, only they were without his knowledge.’
‘Someone betraying Hicks from the inside? Not Vince?’
‘No, not Vince. I had no idea… what Vince really was until he came across me at the logging camp and told me.’
‘Who, then?’
‘Better that you understand what than who. Back when I was an analyst for the think-tank, I discovered this man. He was deemed a low threat, no one of any consequence. He had a deep-seated hatred of the government for what he saw as a betrayal of the Vietnam veterans, but he was more hot air than anything and was never going to progress further than nasty words or propaganda. Under the first amendment, he had a right to shout and scream all he wanted, and he was happy to do that. Posing as a sympathetic ear, I got close to him and he began telling me about this other bunch, an offshoot disowned even by the National Alliance, white supremacists who were planning a major event. Are you familiar with The Turner Diaries, Hunter?’
As someone who had been tasked with taking down paramilitary killers I was all too familiar with the book. Written under the pseudonym of Andrew MacDonald, it was actually penned by Dr William Pierce, the founder of the National Alliance, and was about a race war with a group of militant whites successfully overthrowing the US government. Many racists saw it as a prophetic tale of future events and some had used it as a blueprint for their actions. Timothy McVeigh, the man convicted of the Oklahoma bombing, had confessed to attacking the Federal Building after reading the book. Back in the 1980s, Robert Matthews and his group had gone on a spree of robberies and murder before he was killed in a stand-off with the FBI. Matthews was also an advocate of the book.
