He glanced at the walls as he advanced. Prominently framed and mounted were the principal’s pre-law and JD degrees. The majority of the décor consisted of photographs. One showed her a few years earlier, clad in boots, cargo pants, and a T-shirt, stethoscope to her ears as she checked a bare-chested child’s heartbeat. Another showed her at the previous year’s Women’s March, a large red sign in hand that portrayed the Venus symbol with its top stylized as a clenched fist. A third showed her in Times Square with a group of women. She and her companions were topless. One of the women held up a sign that said, “#FreeTheNipple.”
What have I gotten myself into? Bradshaw wondered as he approached the desk and stood at ease. The principal was deep in conversation on her iPhone, her back turned to Bradshaw. He found a point on the wall between the bookcases to focus on and took a deep, silent breath. The conversation lasted another 30 seconds before she bid the other party farewell, ended the call, and turned to face him.
He had seen Gabriela Rivera in passing on television. She was a frequent guest contributor on MSNBC—where she was a darling on Maddow—as well as CNN. However, she was more than willing to duke it out on Fox News. One particular interview that had received airplay for a solid week was Rivera verbally sparring with Sean Hannity. Bradshaw thought Hannity was a blowhard, even though he agreed with many of the positions promoted on the show. At the same time, watching the two almost melt down simultaneously on-air had been nothing short of entertaining, simply because both sides abandoned the points and took to exchanging personal barbs.
Television did not do Rivera justice. Bradshaw momentarily lost his train of thought as he laid eyes on her. Jet black hair encircled her cherubic face and fell about halfway down her neck. There was a slight cleft in her chin, and her full lips were slightly parted as she studied Bradshaw with her warm, brown eyes. She wore black pleated trousers and a matching unfastened vest over a white collared blouse.
For a moment, Bradshaw nearly forgot that he was there to protect her, or that he couldn’t stand her because she was a member of the leftist radical fringe. Simply put, Gabriela Rivera was absolutely stunning, and certainly a change of pace from the old men with older money that usually solicited his executive protection services.
Rivera extended a hand towards Bradshaw. “Hi. Gabriela Rivera. You can call me Gabs or Gabby.” Her smile was wide, white, even, and inviting. Bradshaw forced himself back into his professional zone as he took her hand in his. Her grip was firm and dry.
“Jack Bradshaw, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll be the primary executive protection agent for the duration of this contract.”
“Well, you passed the handshake test,” Rivera said.
“Handshake test?”
Rivera smiled again. “Our illustrious Commander in Chief likes to yank people in when he shakes their hands as a means of establishing dominance. Thing is, all that tells me about the person doing it is that they’re projecting their own insecurity. They’re not about that life.” She paused and said, “Had you done that, I’d have sent you packing and requested another bodyguard. I’m glad to see my instincts served me well.”
Bradshaw nodded dutifully. “Yes, ma’am.”
She consulted a piece of paper on her desk. “Your file says you were in the special forces?”
“Special operations, ma’am,” Bradshaw corrected. “75th Ranger Regiment.”
“What’s the difference?” Rivera asked. Her tone was sincere, to Bradshaw’s surprise.
“‘Special operations’ is the umbrella term for unconventional military operations, ma’am,” he explained. “‘Special Forces’ is a specific Army unit with designated tasks and skillsets.”
Rivera nodded slowly. “So, rectangles and squares?”
“Exactly so, ma’am.”
She smiled at her own swift understanding of the concept, and Bradshaw found himself resisting the urge to return the gesture. “Did you do this kind of work in the military, Jack?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. My skillset in the Regiment was more offensive in nature.”
“I see.” Rivera took a seat at her desk, leaned back, crossed her legs, and placed her hands behind her head. For a woman receiving serious death threats, she certainly did not project a fearful vibe. “But you have done this kind of work in the civilian world.”
“Yes, ma’am. I will do everything within my ability to guarantee your safety.”
“I know you will.” Another smile, which gradually turned into a grimace. “Though there is one thing that doesn’t match your file.”
“What’s that, ma’am?”
She held up the picture of Bradshaw that FGPS had on file. It was taken about a month after his terminal leave had ended, and shortly after he had shaved to clean up his appearance for his job interview. It was after his first three months at FGPS that Bradshaw had decided to let the mustache grow.
“If I’m being honest…not really digging the ‘stache. You look better without it.”
Jesus Christ, Bradshaw groaned internally. The corners of his lips turned upward slightly as he said, “Ma’am, you have my assurances that my facial hair will not affect my job performance in any fashion.”
Rivera pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. “Oooh, somebody’s touchy about the ‘stache.” She laughed and said, “Your military bearing may wow over most folks, but I’m very good at detecting snark. Point taken, Jack. I won’t mention your mustache again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you can stop calling me ‘ma’am,’ Jack. I’m 33, not 63.”
“Habit of professionalism, ma’am,” Bradshaw said, his face neutral once more.
Rivera smiled cautiously. “You’ll warm up to me, Jack Bradshaw. Give it time.”
Fat fucking chance of that. “Ma’am, while I appreciate witty repartee, perhaps you would like to go over the details of your protest on Monday? I need to see what we’re working with so I can reconnoiter the site ahead of the event.”
“Certainly,” Rivera said, gesturing in front of her. “Have a seat. Let’s talk shop.”
“What would you say your objective for the coming protest is?” Jim Acosta asked.
There was a slight delay, as the interview was being conducted via Skype. Gabriela Rivera said, “Jim, the objective is simple: we let the President know that his white nationalist policies will not be tolerated. We let the President’s Immigration Policy Adviser know that those bigoted practices are unacceptable. We let the Secretary of Homeland Security and the Attorney General know that their xenophobia and racism will not go unanswered. Our voices will be heard. These concentration camps will be shut down. We will revive the American dream and reconnect with the basic truth that the United States is a patchwork quilt, and the basic fabric of that quilt are immigrants.”
“A very powerful statement,” Acosta said. “Thank you for coming on tonight, Gabriela.”
After a second’s pause, Rivera smiled and nodded. “Thank you for having me, Jim.”
“When we return, the latest developments on the Russian interference probe,” Acosta said.
On the exterior, Bill Pfarrer was the embodiment of calm. He stood with his arms folded and watched the CNN program go to commercial. On the inside, however, Pfarrer’s blood boiled. The audacity of that fucking cunt, he fumed. Goddamned wetback importing her socialist bullshit into my country.
What kept Pfarrer calm was the knowledge that Rivera would soon be silenced.
The storeroom door opened, and Mark Gerald entered. He wore a black tee with a gray Nordic rune print on the front, a pair of jeans, black combat boots, and steel-spiked leather wristbands. With his crew cut hair and shoulder-length beard, Gerald looked more like the front man to a heavy metal band than the cold, calculating killer that he was. Pfarrer had witnessed his skill: on a citizen’s patrol three months earlier, they had rounded up a group of border-jumpers. One of them tried to pull a knife on Pfarrer, and Gerald had quickly gunned down four of
the men single-handedly with his civilian AK. That had brought the parasite revolt to a screeching halt, which Pfarrer recalled with a smile.
Gerald’s harsh, angular face was humorless. He did not question why Pfarrer was smiling. Instead, he produced a piece of paper from his back pocket, unfolded it, and set it on the nearby table.
“What’d you get?” Pfarrer asked.
“Spoke to somebody at the city council,” Gerald said. He almost always spoke in monotone. “Apparently, the permit places them across this main road.” He drew a finger along a line on his sketch map. “Pinal Parkway Avenue. This dirt lot is far enough away that they’re allowed to protest, but close enough to satisfy the target.”
Pfarrer studied the map and nodded. “Okay.”
“There’s more,” Gerald said. “My contact says that the permit was amended last-minute. She’s hired a private security firm out of Tucson to act as her bodyguards.”
That brought another smile to Pfarrer’s face. “The spic does feel fear, after all.”
“Yes,” Gerald said with a nod. “And the security will be armed. You were right to anticipate a contingency plan.”
Pfarrer scooted closer to the table and glanced at the map. “We’re gonna have to split up into three teams of three. Karl will lead the first team. You’ll lead the second on the east end. I’ll take the west end.”
“What about this unimproved road to the north?” Gerald asked.
Pfarrer shook his head. “They won’t take that. That would take them through the crowd, in the direction of the hitters. SOP is to get their principal off the X and as far as away from the threat as possible.”
“Okay,” Gerald said.
“Karl will initiate. If he gets the bitch on the first go, excellent. If not, he’s to push them to either you or me. Either way, there’s no way she’ll escape. She’ll be boxed in.”
Gerald visualized the hit in his head. “Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “I can see it.”
“Good,” Pfarrer said. He rose to his full height and smiled at his second-in-command. Gerald had ascended to the spot two months earlier after Pfarrer’s previous second had decided it was a good idea to graphically describe how he’d rape the subhuman and then slit her throat. Had he done it verbally in the clubhouse, nobody would have batted an eye, except perhaps in disgust at the notion of being inside a non-white female. Instead, he’d posted it in the comments section of an Arizona Daily Standard article on Facebook. Thankfully, the Rivera hit had not been conceived at that point, and there was very little the now-inmate could divulge.
“You wanna bring the men up to speed?” Gerald said.
“Yeah,” Pfarrer said. “Let’s brief them and hype them up.” He took a deep breath and smiled. “Monday will be a wonderful day. It will forever be known as the day that the soldiers of the White Resistance Movement struck a great blow on behalf of their race.”
Gerald said nothing in response, but for the first time during the conversation, he smiled.
CHAPTER NINE
State Route 79, 73 miles southeast of Florence, Arizona
20 August 2018
08:20 hours Tango (15:20 hours Zulu)
It had been an early morning. All eight of the Tucson branch’s executive protection agents were on the detail, as well as four from the Phoenix branch. Another four men from Phoenix had been sent ahead as the advance element, ensuring that potential threats had no opportunity to set a trap.
The Tucson personnel were better rested than their Phoenix counterparts, who’d had to rendezvous at their branch office at 04:00 to make it to the Tucson office by the 06:00 link up. The uniform of the day had been agreed upon by both Bradshaw and Rivera: polos or button-down collared shirts, Dickies-style work pants, and hiking boots.
Once the Phoenix men arrived, Bradshaw had gathered them in the operations office, where a digital projector had been set up and a map of the area was displayed. He went over the various plans and contingencies. The operational concept had been disseminated to the Tucson agents the day before, and emailed to Phoenix office for them to do likewise. Still, Bradshaw went over the plan’s points once more while the men drank coffee. Most of them had prior experience in law enforcement, the military, or both, and took the briefing in stride. At the conclusion, Bradshaw had them brief him back to ensure comprehension.
By 06:10, vehicles and radios were being inspected for deficiencies. At 06:20, they were on the road, and by 06:30, they had arrived at the American Dream Foundation office at the Williams Centre, where the uniformed guard who had escorted Rivera from her home stood by.
Rivera wore a black shirt that had the Homeland Security seal inside an interdictory circle, jeans, and Chuck Taylors. She had seamlessly transitioned from legal professional to grassroots activist, and seemed equally at home in both roles.
Bradshaw looked at his men. They were professional enough to keep their disdain obscured, but one who knew the signs knew they weren’t pleased with the assignment. Two of the men on the detail were retired Border Patrol. One of them, a red-headed Tucson agent named Tim Norton, had made a comment to Bradshaw the day before about “lions guarding the sheep.” Bradshaw agreed with the sentiment, but also knew a solid payday lay ahead.
Once Rivera was in the primary vehicle, the convoy rolled out. DJ Simmons was truck commander for the lead vehicle, Bradshaw for the primary, and Norton commanded the follow vehicle. They drove surveillance detection routes for 30 minutes while they slowly made their way towards Oracle Road. When they were certain they weren’t being followed, they proceeded down Oracle until it became State Route 77.
As they left the city, Rivera asked, “Is there a reason why we just drove in circles?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bradshaw answered from the front. “We wanted to ensure that nobody was going to try and attack the convoy while on the road up to Florence.”
Rivera’s brow furrowed. “Why would they do that? They know where we’re going to be.”
“The protest site is right down the street from the sheriff’s department and across from a detention facility,” Bradshaw explained. “That’s in addition to our presence. It’s not impossible, but it would definitely be easier to hit us when we’re committed to the drive up, miles from reinforcements.”
Rivera nodded slowly, then glanced out the window as she exhaled. “How long have you been doing this kind of work, Jack?”
“About a year, ma’am,” Bradshaw said.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” It was an oversimplification, but she didn’t need to know the details.
“You seem like you’d be more at home in a war zone as opposed to escorting a liberal activist to a rally.”
“Being at home is a state of mind, ma’am. Right now, there is only the principal.”
Rivera’s canted her head in confusion. “The principal?”
“The person for whose safety we are responsible.”
Rivera smiled. “That would almost sound romantic coming from anybody else.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Only the principal…” She clicked her teeth. “What do you think about the family separations, Jack?”
“Ma’am, I think it’s a policy matter for politicians and public figures to discuss and debate.”
The smile remained on Rivera’s face, but her eyes narrowed. “That sounded incredibly evasive, Jack.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t discuss politics with the principal?”
“No, ma’am. That is a professional faux pas. Industry ethics mandate that we remain detached, cordial, and courteous. Politics, religion, and personal lives are off-limits, ma’am.”
Rivera pursed her lips. “Am I free to discuss those with you?”
“Ma’am, you’re free to say whatever you want to me and my men, so long as you do not berate or belittle them.”
“Not that I would,” Rivera prefaced, “but what would happen if I did?”
“M
a’am, we would complete the day’s itinerary, and once you were home safe, I would file a report with my superiors. Depending on the severity of the offense, they would either warn you that further such behavior would be grounds for termination of the contract, or they would proceed directly to termination.”
“A good policy. Nobody deserves a toxic work environment.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The smile returned, a bit slyer than before. “Is that your answer to everything?”
“No, ma’am, just most things.”
The smile faltered a bit. “Do you mind if I offer you a critical observation?”
Bradshaw’s eyes hadn’t left the road during the entire conversation. “No, ma’am.”
“Your people skills could use some work.”
Bradshaw suppressed a smile. “Ma’am, with all due respect, my people’s skills aren’t what make me marketable.”
Rivera nodded slowly, lips pressed together, then disengaged the conversation. She pulled out her iPhone and began to tap away at the screen with her thumbs. Rivera might have been dispirited at Bradshaw’s lack of social graces, but it did not bother him one bit. The quieter the remainder of the drive was, the better.
Florence, Arizona
20 August 2018
09:05 hours Tango (16:05 hours Zulu)
The convoy arrived several minutes ahead of schedule. They proceeded to the Pinal County Sheriff’s Headquarters. The building was located right around the corner from the rally site, so it had been coordinated between the advance team and the rally’s law enforcement detail that the pre-rally meetup would take place there. When the vehicles pulled up in front of the three-story brick building, Bradshaw began to remove his weapons and kit from beneath his belt line.
“Why are you disarming?” Rivera asked.
Fault Lines Page 10
