Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  “Shh,” Bradshaw said.

  On cue, the lights turned off. There! Bradshaw thought. A moment later, the door swung open. Bradshaw’s finger immediately set to work, taking a picture per second. In the illumination of the room’s porch light, it was clear that Vinson had left hickeys on Castro’s neck. The pair held each other close, and then shared a deep, prolonged kiss. Reluctantly, they parted ways, entered their cars, and drove to the lot entrance. Vinson turned north on Alvernon, while Castro headed south.

  Bradshaw immediately lowered the camera and thumbed through the images. All of them were clear, particularly the one that showed the bruises on Castro’s neck. He smiled mirthlessly as he reached the end of the camera roll.

  “Got you, you son of a bitch,” he murmured.

  “Lemme see,” Simmons said. Once he received the camera, he scrolled backwards through the pictures. “Yeah,” he said when he reached the end. “This oughta please the boss.”

  “I feel for the client,” Bradshaw said. “It’s gonna fuck her up.”

  Simmons raised his eyebrows. “Jack, we’ve been working together for almost a year, and this might be the first time you’ve confided in me.” He put his hand on his chest. “I’m touched, my man. Truly touched.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Bradshaw said as he rolled his eyes. Simmons chuckled as Bradshaw inclined his seat and got situated. “Roads should be clear. We can be at the office in 15 minutes, hammer out these reports, and knock off before midnight.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Simmons said as he pulled out his phone and connected it to the auxiliary cord plugged into the Optima. As he pulled up the YouTube app, he said, “But first, time for a victory theme.”

  “Not this again,” Bradshaw groaned.

  “Yeeeeeep!” Simmons said with a grin. He was a lifelong WWE fan, back to when it was the World Wide Wrestling Federation. As soon as he found out that his partner’s name was Bradshaw, Simmons had immediately broken out his smartphone and played the Titantron for The Acolytes Protection Agency tag-team. It slowly evolved into an end-of-job tradition.

  “Oh, God,” Bradshaw groaned as he started the vehicle.

  “You know it!” Simmons laughed. “Earning that beer money, motherfucker! Damn!”

  Bradshaw couldn’t help but spare a small smile as he pulled out of the parking spot.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tucson, Arizona

  17 August 2018

  09:30 hours Tango (16:30 hours Zulu)

  Company protocol after an extended surveillance job was a day or two off. Bradshaw had anticipated that, and after wrapping up the reports the night before, he’d broken character. He had driven home to his apartment on the east side, showered, changed, and caught an Uber to Dirtbags, a dive bar in the middle of the university district.

  At first, Bradshaw had enjoyed a few beers in relative silence. On the fifth, he’d noticed a blonde 20-something who was also alone. When he’d hit seven, he’d made his way over to her and leaned against the bar.

  “This seat taken?” he’d asked her.

  She looked him up and down and said, “Aren’t you a bit old to be cruising for coeds?”

  Normally, the rejection would have taken him aback. With his inhibitions lowered, Bradshaw was feeling brave. “With age comes experience.”

  The blonde laughed derisively as she reached for her beer. “Judging from your bad 70s cop porn ‘stache, you’re a virgin.”

  Then you’re a shitty judge of talent and are probably only good for one thing, Bradshaw had possessed the good sense not to say. Instead, he gave her his most charming smile and said, “I might surprise you.”

  The blonde had given him a pitiful look and said, “Oh, I’d ruin you for whatever saint decided to pick up my scraps. Luckily for you, I don’t waste my time on creeps.” With that, she slammed the rest of her drink in one gulp, threw a few Jacksons on the bar, and left.

  “Damn,” the barkeep said, shaking his head as he turned away and continued to dry the glass in his hands.

  Bradshaw took that as a sign to pay his tab and catch an Uber home. On the way to his complex, he caught a glimpse of the Boat and contemplated having the driver redirect there. It’d been years since Bradshaw had stepped foot in a strip club, but in the wake of rejection, he wondered if he’d get lucky if he paid for enough lap dances. In the end, Bradshaw watched the Boat come and go as they continued down Golf Links.

  Once inside of his apartment, Bradshaw took up real estate on his futon and polished off a 12-pack of Coors Light he had saved in the fridge for a rainy day. He perused his television channels in search of something to occupy his time, but he found nothing. In the end, Bradshaw ended up turning off his TV, breaking out his laptop, and watching old deployment videos.

  Seeing himself younger, chin held high, and his best friend alive and at his side only served to motivate him to get to work on the 30-pack of Coors that was also in the fridge. After three more beers, Bradshaw was fighting tears. By the sixth, his body trembled as he wept uncontrollably. He was halfway through the ninth when he set it down on the coffee table, laid on his side, and dozed off. Fifteen minutes later, he had hurriedly stumbled to the bathroom to worship the porcelain goddess. Only then did Bradshaw manage to stumble to his bed, lay on top of his sheets, and pass out.

  Four and a half hours later, the shrill chirping of his Kyocera DuraXV pre-paid phone stirred him from his semi-drunken stupor. Bradshaw had reached for the phone, looked at the number, then slowly sat up in bed. He winced as he rubbed his temples in an attempt to alleviate the beginning of a killer hangover headache. Bradshaw cleared his throat, flipped the phone open, and placed it to his ear.

  “Go for Bradshaw.”

  “Jack,” his boss said, “I know that you’re due time off, but I’ve got a last-minute job and I need you. Can you come in?”

  Bradshaw checked the alarm clock on his bedside dresser: 08:30. “Give me an hour, sir.”

  A hot shower, a change of clothes, three Sausage, Egg, and Cheese McGriddles, and a black coffee later, Bradshaw had pulled into the company parking lot in his 2006 Toyota Corolla. He got out, ran a hand over his hair, and walked briskly towards the office.

  First Guard Protective Services’ Tucson Branch was located in a business complex on the east side, north of Kolb and Speedway. A fleet of both marked patrol vehicles and unmarked surveillance cars filled the parking lot at the south end of the complex. The two-story building was made of bricks. FGPS rented the second floor, with its operations office on one side of the hall and the administrative office on the other.

  Miguel Dominguez was FGPS’ operations manager. He was a fireplug of a man, standing only 5’7” but possessing a tightly coiled, muscular physique. At 47 years old, Dominguez could easily run circles around most of FGPS’ employees, and that was considering that the hiring process was more stringent than most security companies. He possessed a thick mane of black hair that he kept slicked back with gel and dressed like the former detective that he was: button-down shirt, slacks, tie, duty Oxfords, and gun on his hip.

  Dominguez was seated at his desk when Bradshaw knocked loudly on the door. He bellowed, “Come!” Bradshaw entered, sporting a black polo shirt, khaki slacks, and shoes similar to Dominguez’s. When Bradshaw was in front of the chair opposite the desk, he stood at parade rest.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” Bradshaw said, not quite sounding off but still projecting his voice.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Dominguez said, waving his hand.

  Bradshaw seated himself at the position of attention: feet at a 45-degree angle, back ramrod straight, and hands on knees.

  “You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ for the 900th time,” Dominguez said tiredly. “We’re civilians.”

  Bradshaw offered a small smile. “Old habits die hard, sir.”

  Dominguez rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Jack. You’ve got a bad case of Major Payne Syndrome.” He took a deep breath and said, “First off, I wanted to thank
you on your work on the Vinson job. I called the client down this morning and presented the evidence.”

  “How did she take it, sir?” Bradshaw asked.

  Dominguez noted the softness in his tone but said nothing. “As well as anyone in her position. She’ll be okay. Her lawyer said that there’s more than enough to clean out the subject’s bank account in the divorce proceedings. It’ll be the most expensive lay he’s ever had.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said. A small part within him felt peace knowing that at least one person received comeuppance from falling victim to their partner’s infidelity.

  “That leads me in to why I called you,” Dominguez said. He pulled out a manila folder bearing the company logo and extended it across the desk. Bradshaw accepted it and flipped it open.

  “What’s the job, sir?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Executive protection,” Dominguez said.

  “Principal…” Bradshaw’s eyes narrowed, then glanced up from the client profile to stare at Dominguez. “You’re kidding me, sir.”

  “Nope,” Dominguez said.

  Bradshaw closed the file and placed it back on the desk. “Respectfully, sir, I don’t want it.”

  It was Dominguez’s turn to narrow his eyes. “Why not?”

  Bradshaw inhaled deeply. “Permission to speak—”

  “Ci-vil-ians,” Dominguez said. “Say what’s on your mind, man. I’m no snowflake.”

  “She’s a goddamned radical, sir,” Bradshaw said. “She’s an open-borders peacenik, a criminal enabler, and a race baiter. She probably just wants security as props for her political theater.”

  “That doesn’t make the money any less green, mijo,” Dominguez said.

  “Is there even a credible threat?” Bradshaw said.

  “Actually, there is,” Dominguez said. “I made some calls to my buddies still on the job. She’s lodged some complaints. Couple of guys got rounded up for saying some fucked up shit about raping and murdering her. She got doxxed, and photos taken outside her home were posted on some white supremacist forums. Speaking purely from a security perspective, this is as righteous as an EP gig gets.” He pushed the folder back across the desk. “You’d have known that if you’d read the entire packet, Jack.”

  Bradshaw took a deep breath as he picked the folder back up. “Why me?”

  “With what she’s paying? We let her take her pick. She saw your dossier and immediately asked for you.”

  Bradshaw continued to skim through the profile. “How does a nobody legal counsel with only a few years’ experience under her belt have the juice to form the kind of non-profit that can afford a PSD?”

  “Crowdfunding,” Dominguez said. “She’s a hot millennial with strong political opinions. A few dollars here, a few dollars there, and all of a sudden, her organization’s pulling in six figures.”

  “I don’t buy it,” Bradshaw said. “Looks like she’s defended some MS-13 scumbags along the way, too. I’m thinking cartel money.”

  “Slow down,” Dominguez said with a short chuckle. “You read her personal info?”

  Bradshaw reached that portion of the profile, and it deflated his rage bubble a notch. “Hmm. Point taken, sir. Still—”

  “Still nothing,” Dominguez said. “You’re looking for an excuse not to take the job, and I’m telling you that there isn’t one.” He interlaced his fingers and rest his hands on his desk. “Look, Jack. I get it. You know I’m just as much of a law-and-order guy as the next guy. Registered Republican, never voted for a Democrat. I’m the last guy who’d ever jump on the open borders, ‘Abolish ICE’ train. My parents pinched pennies and came here the right way, and her movement’s a slap in the face to their struggle.”

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “At the same time, I’m a businessman. My personal politics don’t enter into the contracts I recommend to the business office. If the Planned Parenthood executive board wanted to hire us to protect an abortion-themed cocktail party, all they’d have to do is name the right price. You need to remove your personal politics from the equation and focus on the money. The company needs this, and you can’t say you couldn’t use the premium salary for a few weeks.”

  Bradshaw sighed as he flipped back to the start of the file and began to re-read it. “I don’t like it, sir.”

  Dominguez sighed. “Would you do it as a personal favor to me?”

  Bradshaw continued to flip through the pages as he sighed once more. He flexed his jaw, closed the file, and met Dominguez’s gaze. “Yes, sir. I’ll do it.”

  Dominguez’s face lit up. “Excellent. You’re on the clock.” He pointed to the profile. “Her work address is in there. We’ve got uniformed officers standing post at her office during daytime hours, at her home during her off time, and we’re working on installing alarms and cameras. Get cleaned up and go get some face time with her. You’re gonna hit the ground running.”

  “I am?” Bradshaw asked.

  “She’s got a protest planned for Monday outside of the CCA joint up in Florence. You’ll need to assemble a detail.”

  “Greeeeat,” Bradshaw grumbled. He closed the file, rose to his feet, and gave Dominguez a nod. “Sir.” Without further conversation, Bradshaw turned and marched out of the office. Dominguez watched him leave, then smirked as he shook his head and returned to his paperwork.

  * * *

  Bradshaw went home, changed into his gym clothes, and went down to the LA Fitness on Harrison. His regimen consisted of calisthenics, weight training, and cardio, spread out over a 90-minute period. After he sweated out what remained of the alcohol in his system, Bradshaw returned to the apartment and took a second, much longer shower.

  Next came a shave. The mustache stayed, but the five days’ worth of stubble disappeared. He splashed a bit of Old Spice in his palms, rubbed his hands together, and patted his smooth cheeks until he was satisfied. He squeezed a small dollop of hair gel into his hands, worked it into his hair, and combed it in a right-part. Once that was finished, Bradshaw threw on a white undershirt, a pair of boxers, and dress socks, then made his way to the kitchen. He made and drank a protein shake that consisted of almond milk, ice, peanut butter, two bananas, and a scoop of whey.

  The final step was to get into character, as Bradshaw termed it. He laid out his kit and inspected each piece. Tucson’s executive protection market was small, and Bradshaw did not get to use the kit very often. Thus, whenever a job did arise, he made sure to thoroughly check that his gear was still in good working order.

  A blue NIJ-rated Level IIIA soft armor vest was the first step. He strapped it on to where it hugged his body without constricting his torso. Next, he affixed plastic shirt-stays to the bottom of his white button-down shirt, put the shirt on, and fastened the shirt-stay tails to his socks. The bottom half of his gray tailored suit came next.

  Once the trousers were on, Bradshaw stepped into the bathroom to ensure his gig line was straight. His leather belt came next, and as he threaded it through the pants’ loops, he slipped on his tools: a Craft Holsters double magazine carrier, a pair of Smith & Wesson hinged handcuffs in a Bianchi leather snap-open case, a 16” ASP collapsible baton in a Kydex holder, a Walther PPQ in a Craft pancake holster, and a stainless steel Smith & Wesson 642 snub-nosed revolver in a PHLster City Special holster.

  Once his kit was on, he hopped around to make sure it stayed in place. Bradshaw then found his Bates duty Oxfords and slipped them on, then picked a red tie and fastened it in a double Windsor with the tip just above his belt buckle. His jacket, which had been custom-tailored to accommodate his gear without printing or looking too baggy, came next.

  The final steps were his MTM Special Ops Cobra wristwatch, worn with the face down on the inside of his left wrist; and a black bracelet that he wore on his right wrist. Bradshaw lifted the bracelet and read the silver print:

  SFC LOGAN (NMI) FOX—TX—ARMY

  FREEDOM’S SENTINEL—12 JUN 17—KIA

  A heavy sigh fell from Bradshaw’s lip
s as his finger ran over the bracelet. Miss you, brother. He slipped the bracelet onto his right wrist, then stepped in front of the mirror to inspect his appearance. Satisfied, he grabbed his keys and was out the door.

  Bradshaw’s destination was the Williams Centre, located just off of Craycroft and south of Broadway. He pulled into the parking lot, disembarked, and made his way to the lobby. Inside, he checked the directory board cabinet and found his location: third floor, suite #346. Bradshaw tapped the directory’s glass, then trotted up the stairwell.

  A uniformed guard was posted outside the office, wearing the light blue shirt, navy blue pants, and black boots that constituted FGPS’ duty uniform. Bradshaw didn’t recognize the man, and decided to produce his credential case from his pocket. On the outside was the company badge, and within were both his armed and unarmed DPS security guard cards.

  He showed the credentials to the sentry. “Dominguez sent me for a one-on-one with the principal.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sentry said. “He told me to expect you.” He grabbed the door handle and pushed it open for Bradshaw. “Her office is on the left. Break room’s on the right.”

  “Thanks,” Bradshaw said as he stepped over the threshold.

  The entrance led to a pair of doors that were angled away from each other. Both were mahogany framed with opaque glass and brass door knobs. The right door was unmarked. The door on the left had large, gold block print across it:

  AMERICAN DREAM FOUNDATION

  G. RIVERA, ESQ., EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR

  Hmm, Bradshaw thought. He exhaled, stepped to the left door, and entered the office.

  Steel blue carpet covered the floors and complemented the white walls. At the far end of the room were a pair of tall windows that flanked a balcony door. A cherry wood desk was positioned along the right-hand wall, with a large black bookcase on either side. A pair of flags were posted on the outside of the bookcases: the American flag on the left, and the Mexican flag on the right. Behind the desk was a large faux-leather office chair, and in front of it were a pair of stylish Bergère chairs. On top of the desk was a Mac Pro connected to an LG 5K monitor.