Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  “It’s a police station, ma’am,” Bradshaw said. “Weapons aren’t allowed.”

  Rivera half-smiled. “Of course. A police station is a gun-free zone, but somehow, labeling our schools the same is an issue.”

  Bradshaw was not sure he could muster a professional, snark-free “yes, ma’am” in response to that, so he remained silent. The kit was the same as when he wore a suit and tie, with the exception of his Walther PPQ in its Craft Tuckable IWB holster, with the Walther positioned appendix and the S&W snub-nose in its PHLster holster over his right hip. Once his gear was removed and placed on the dash, Bradshaw looked at Rivera.

  “Let’s go, ma’am,” he said.

  Rivera and Bradshaw got out of the car and were joined by DJ Simmons moments later. The three of them walked through the front door and cleared the metal detector. Pinal County Sheriff’s front lobby resembled a doctor’s office waiting room, with the two major changes being that the décor was law enforcement themed in nature, and the receptionist was inside a booth with bulletproof glass.

  The desk sergeant was an old-timer riding out his time until retirement, though he was still relatively fit and looked sharp. He looked up as Bradshaw approached.

  “How can I help you, sir?” he asked.

  Bradshaw slipped his and Simmons’s credentials through the small opening in the glass. “Jack Bradshaw with First Guard Protective, here to speak to Deputy Reczek.”

  The old-timer inspected the guard cards inside the credential cases, then looked back up at Bradshaw. “You’re here for the rally.” It was not a question, and his tone indicated his disapproval.

  Bradshaw nodded and pursed his lips. “Yes, sir.”

  He gave an understanding nod, then returned the credentials. “Go ahead and wait out there. I’ll go get her.”

  “Thank you.”

  A minute passed before the secured door opened. A short, lean, fair-skinned woman stepped out, clad in a tan-on-olive drab service uniform. Her dark hair was tied in a tight classic bun, which accentuated her high cheekbones. Intense hazel eyes sized Bradshaw, Simmons, and Rivera up immediately upon making contact, which was a guaranteed sign of professionalism. When she reached Bradshaw, she extended her hand.

  “Chris Reczek,” she said by way of introduction.

  Bradshaw took her hand. The firm, dry grip was reassuring. “Jack Bradshaw.” He gestured to Simmons. “My partner, DJ Simmons.”

  “How do you do?” Simmons asked perfunctorily with a polite smile as he shook Reczek’s hand.

  Bradshaw looked to Rivera. “The principal, Ms. Gabriela Rivera.”

  Rivera and Reczek looked at each other and nodded courteously. Neither one offered the other a handshake. That came as no surprise to all parties present. Still, both were professionals and acted accordingly.

  “If you’ll follow me,” Reczek said.

  The desk sergeant buzzed them in, and Reczek led them through a hallway, flanked on both sides by an assortment of cubicles, offices, and conference rooms. Bradshaw cleared his throat as they walked.

  “What’s the security configuration?”

  “Twenty deputies and officers,” Reczek said. “Eight of them are from SWAT. They’ll have access to less-than-lethal munitions should the event escalate.”

  “Hold on,” Rivera spoke up. “I’m under threat, and you’re worried about the protestors?”

  “Ma’am, your personal security is Mr. Bradshaw’s responsibility,” Reczek replied evenly, not breaking stride as she spoke. “My responsibility is public safety. My people will do the best we can to protect you, but we’ve got several hundred people for whom we must be concerned.”

  Bradshaw glanced at Rivera. Her sunny disposition had soured, but she held her tongue. With a deep breath, he looked back to Reczek and said, “You’ve got deputies on site right now?”

  “We do,” Reczek said. “Skeleton crew keeping eyes on the event. They should be connected with your advanced team. It’s gonna be a considerable turnout, especially for this town.”

  Reczek arrived at the briefing room and gestured inside. “Mr. Simmons, Ms. Rivera, if you’ll step inside, my people will brief you on procedures. Mr. Bradshaw, a moment?”

  “Go ahead,” Bradshaw said to Rivera and Simmons. They stepped inside, and Reczek motioned for Bradshaw to follow her out of earshot. Once they were alone, Reczek turned back to Bradshaw and folded her arms.

  “You a LEO?” she asked.

  “Negative,” Bradshaw said. “Veteran.”

  “That works,” Reczek said. “So we can have a no-bullshit conversation, just two fellas in green.”

  Bradshaw gave Reczek a small smile. “That’s more my speed.”

  Reczek returned the smile, then said, “Is your principal going to be an issue?”

  Bradshaw rolled his lips inward and stuck his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think so. My firm did their research, and I’ve seen her press junkets. She’s a firebrand. At the same time, she’s been nothing but courteous and professional with me and my staff, if a little bubbly and talkative.”

  “To be honest?” Reczek raised her eyebrows. “I’m surprised she was able to secure the permit. At least three of the rallies she’s led in other states have become unruly or outright violent.”

  “In fairness and to the extent of my layman’s knowledge, she stayed within the legal boundaries regarding incitement,” Bradshaw responded.

  “She did,” Reczek allowed. “But you and I both know it takes two to tango.”

  “It does, at that.”

  She shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Pinal County is a massive corridor for human trafficking and drug smuggling. If you’re looking for the one spot where the illegal immigration topic is sorest, you’ve found it. She must be connected if she managed to get approved for the permit, and across the street from the CCA facility, no less.”

  “Above my paygrade, ma’am,” Bradshaw said. “Just protecting the principal.”

  “It’s Chris,” Reczek said. “Two fellas in green, right, Jack?”

  “Right.”

  “So, here’s the other thing. Not a lot of people around here are gonna shed tears if your principal catches a bullet. This is a pro-border security, pro-law enforcement town, with a large number of residents employed by the feds, state, county, or one of the private prison groups. Aside from the protestors, your people and mine are about the only friends she’s got.”

  “Agreed, but where are you going with this?”

  “Your advance team shared what you had regarding the threats on her life. Did they specify a particular group or organization that might wanna take a crack at her?”

  Bradshaw shook his head. “One guy was arrested after he made threats online, but to my knowledge, they’ve yet to connect him to a group.”

  Reczek looked off to the side and exhaled. She tapped her tricep with her pointer finger a few times before returning her gaze to Bradshaw. “In that case? Stay frosty. It’s gonna be an uphill battle.”

  “I hear you,” Bradshaw said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Florence, Arizona

  20 August 2018

  10:15 hours Tango (17:15 hours Zulu)

  “What has our nation become?” Rivera asked, the microphone held an inch from her lips. A couple in the crowd vocalized their agreement. “Less than two years ago, we had a President who, just 50 years earlier, could have been killed if he tried to vote in the wrong county, whose parents would have been ostracized or accosted for their mixed-race relationship.”

  She paused and looked at the crowd intently, meeting several of their eyes before she continued. “We went from that man being President…” On cue, Rivera turned to profile, gestured to the CCA detention facility across the street, and said, “…to straight up concentration camps.”

  Boos carried across the air. Rivera turned back to the crowd, the microphone held closer to her lips as she lowered her voice. “I won’t tell you that things were perfect before thi
s administration. I disagreed with the previous President on many policy points, especially on immigration.” She could see nods from those whom she presumed to be the hardline progressives, who were only minimally impressed with the previous administration. “At the end of the day, though, I know that what he did was not motivated by race, and even with his deportation record, he strove to keep families together wherever possible.”

  Polite applause rose in crescendo, and Rivera spoke above it. “He was a decent man who did what he thought was best for the country, not for himself. And in just under two years, we went from that…to a shallow con man who only cares about himself and his fellow one-percenters. What he can do for them and how he can persecute and oppress those who don’t look like him.” To hammer her point home, Rivera rubbed the outside of her forearm to bring focus to her complexion.

  The boos rose again, and Rivera held up her hand. She waited a beat for the volume to decrease before she spoke. “The great thing about this nation, the reason why the downtrodden worldwide seek refuge here, is that the groundwork was laid out the gate for all of us to pursue opportunities, to secure a safe and comfortable existence. It hasn’t always lived up to that potential. Our current circumstances are a perfect example of that. At the same time, our right to speak up and fight those who pervert the system to perpetuate systemic racism, who obstruct progress, remains unchanged, and we will not be silenced.”

  Cheers flew from the congregation. “There was no need to make America great again before November of 2016! It was already great! It’s only necessary to make it great again because this disgrace of a President has tarnished this nation’s image, desecrated its values, and betrayed the morals upon which this nation is built!” As they hollered in affirmation, Rivera shouted, “We want to make this nation great again, we need the con man out!”

  Bradshaw stood off to Rivera’s left, his hands clasped in front of his waist, Oakley Gascans shielding his eyes. In his right ear was an earbud that was connected to his Motorola radio, and in his left was an earplug. Both were electronic, allowing him to clearly hear sounds beneath a certain decibel level, but filtering out any sounds above it, such as gunfire. They functioned similarly to the Peltor ComTec III he’d used while with the Regiment, but was miniaturized for law enforcement and executive protection purposes.

  The rally was Bradshaw’s first PSD where the principal addressed the public, and he already didn’t like it. His politics notwithstanding, it was a nightmare. When guarding a VIP trying to go about their day, most people on the streets were doing likewise, which made it easy to pick out potential threats. At a rally, all eyes were on the principal, and with a crowd that easily exceeded a few hundred people, it made scanning for threats almost impossible.

  There were five other EP agents on stage with Bradshaw. Jackson and Hunter stood closer to the stage’s edge. Bradshaw and Parks were even on the flank. The final two, Hill and Ralston, hung back. They formed a loose protective hexagon around Rivera. Simmons, Tim Norton, and four other agents remained with the cars, which were staged with engines running on an unimproved road at the east end of the field. The crowd was encircled in metal barriers. Opposite the barriers was the 20-man law enforcement detail, spread out at even intervals. The LEOs’ cars—and their crowd control munitions—were just a short sprint away.

  It was about a 150-meter sprint to the First Guard PSD vehicles, as well as an equal distance to the other unimproved road at the west end of the field. Ideally, they would move her directly to the vehicles and peel out, but if the attackers blocked the path, Simmons and Norton could easily roll the vehicles to the principal.

  Sweat trickled down Bradshaw’s forehead and narrowly missed his left eye. Even with the cloud cover, the temperature had managed to push past 100ºF. He was thankful that he had spent the past 36 hours hydrating, though he could tell that by the time they dropped the principal off at her home, the urge to relieve himself would be overwhelming.

  Rivera raised her fist and pumped it in cadence with her chant. “Heads up! Stand tall! We don’t want your fucking wall!”

  The crowd answered as one, their fists held high as they mimicked Rivera. “Heads up! Stand tall! We don’t want your fucking wall!”

  A white male with close-cropped hair stood about 50 meters from the stage. Bradshaw noticed him because he had been one of the few who hadn’t participated in the cadence call. He then noticed that, evenly spaced out in a line, was another man to the first’s right and two more to his left, all white with short haircuts. Each man wore a scowl on his face. Given the nature of the event, that wouldn’t have been an immediate red flag, but Bradshaw saw that their contempt was aimed at Rivera. His pulse spiked when he saw the first man look to each flank and share a nod with the others.

  When the first man pushed forward, lifted the tails of his button-down shirt to his sternum, and reached to his waistband, Bradshaw acted.

  “Gun!” he barked. Bradshaw reached Rivera and tackled her to the deck just as the first gunshot whizzed past her head. The crowd around the shooters shrieked. Most turned and sprinted in the opposite direction of the gunfire, while some froze up and stared in horror. The foreground and background cleared enough for Jackson and Hunter to step forward, draw their weapons, and engage the attackers.

  Bradshaw brought his wrist microphone/transmitter to his mouth. “Prairie fire! Prairie fire! Gold! Gold!”

  The brevity codes borrowed heavily from military terminology. Prairie fire meant that an emergency extraction was necessary. Black meant that they would move the principal to the east, while gold meant they would utilize the west. The threat was too heavy on the black side to try and move the principal off the X in that direction.

  One of the assailants had managed not to get cut down by the response gunfire and had maneuvered further east to get a better shot at Rivera. In a blur, Bradshaw drew his Walther PPQ from beneath his shirt, drove it out in front of him, and cranked off four quick shots that ripped through the assailant’s chest. He staggered and fell to the dirt, but Bradshaw did not stop to admire his handiwork.

  They had briefed Rivera on the procedure prior to departure. Rivera would grab hold of the lead EP agent’s shirt. She was to keep her head low and stay within the protective perimeter. Bradshaw hoped that she had paid attention, as there was no time for reiteration.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Bradshaw shouted. He grabbed Rivera by the arm, yanked her to her feet, and immediately stood in front of her, his Walther extended in front of him. When he felt a tug on the back of his shirt, he glanced over either shoulder to find Hill on his left and Ralston on his right. Bradshaw caught a glimpse of Parks at the rear, which meant that the perimeter was closed.

  “Moving!” Bradshaw announced as he jogged briskly to the stage’s edge. His instincts told him to increase the pace, but if he moved too fast, Rivera would be exposed. Formation maintenance was paramount. Arriving at the egress point quickly was pointless if the principal was dead.

  As they passed the other side of the barriers, a lifted truck peeled to a halt on the unimproved road. Four men leapt from the truck, three of them with handguns and another with a shotgun. The shotgunner locked on the formation, pointed, and shouted something indecipherable before sprinting forward.

  “Contact front!” Bradshaw shouted as he cranked off another three rounds. The first two were low and wide. The third caught the shotgunner in the shin. As he fell, Bradshaw tracked him with his front sight post, centered it on the man’s chest, and fired another three rounds. Those found their mark, and the man fell still.

  Bradshaw drove his pistol to his right, picked up another target in his sights, and tensed as a snap announced that the assailant’s first round had flew over his head. The Walther spoke three times, and two of the three rounds found the man’s torso, one in the stomach and one in the sternum. The assailant collapsed, his pistol clattering out of reach.

  To Bradshaw’s right, Ralston put one round center mass into a pistol man, transitione
d right, fired a pair of rounds, then returned to his first target and serviced him once more. Both men joined their fallen comrades in short order.

  “Let’s go!” a voice shouted from the truck.

  With a screech, the pickup peeled out in reverse. Bradshaw’s eyes locked on the driver. Something was off. As he continued forward, the face grew clearer. Bradshaw nearly stopped in his tracks.

  He had seen that face before.

  He had seen it a year earlier through an Elcan SpecterDR on his Army-issued FN SCAR-H, defending an unknown patrol base nearly 8,000 miles away.

  He had been sure he would never see that face again, as he had placed his reticle on the man’s chest, squeezed the trigger, watched the bullet make impact, and saw him fall.

  Instinctively, Bradshaw drove his pistol toward the driver and fired. At that same moment, the driver spun the truck around 180 degrees, and the round impacted harmlessly on the truck cab’s roof. Bradshaw tried to make target acquisition once more, but the truck had quickly left his effective engagement range. The urge to chase after it was checked by his dispassionate, mission-oriented side.

  Evacuate the principal.

  On cue, the convoy arrived. Doors opened up on all sides, and men dismounted, an assortment of modern sporting rifles in hand and held at the low ready. When Bradshaw reached his truck, he posted up and hurried Rivera into the backseat. Once she was in, the EP agents sprinted to their vehicles and mounted up. Bradshaw opened his vehicle’s passenger door, climbed inside, and slammed it shut.

  Bradshaw keyed up his radio. “Sherriff’s HQ, now.” As the convoy started moving, Bradshaw dropped his mostly spent magazine, tossed it on the dash, and replaced it with a full one from his waistline. Once his gun was up, he held it with the muzzle trained at the ground as he turned to look at the backseat. Ralston and Hill had executed their job without instruction, immediately conducting a blood check on Rivera. She was too stunned to protest at her arms and legs being grabbed and patted.

  “We good?” Bradshaw asked.