Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  “Good!” Hill called out.

  “We’re good,” Ralston answered. “All OK.”

  Bradshaw turned back to the driver’s seat and scanned the horizon as the SUVs raced back to the Sheriff’s Office. It was all that he could do to keep his mind on task.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Florence, Arizona

  20 August 2018

  12:07 hours Tango (19:07 hours Zulu)

  “I’m watching the news,” Miguel Dominguez said on the phone. “What the hell is going on down there, Bradshaw?”

  “Somebody tried to hit the principal,” Bradshaw said. He glanced around the Sheriff’s Department HQ. It was a flurry of activity, likely one that had not been present in that location for quite some time. Uniforms and suits walked back and forth, many of them also on cellular phones.

  “Yeah, I gathered that,” Dominguez said derisively. “Details.”

  “Principal’s alive and unharmed, sir. Hunter caught one in his vest. He’s bruised but alive. No other friendly casualties to report at this time.”

  “Good. Bad guys?”

  Bradshaw took a deep breath. “Organized. Four in the crowd, near the front. They must have arrived early and tried to blend in with the other protestors. When we tried to move the principal off the X, the bad guys interdicted. We drove them off.”

  “Is that all you have?” Dominguez asked.

  There was a slight pause. “They were all white guys. Haven’t seen the bodies yet. Won’t mean much until the locals get back to us with profiles on the shooters.”

  Dominguez said nothing for a moment. When he did speak, the frustration of command crept into his voice. “Get her back here ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said. “You’re also going to need to talk with Pinal County Sheriff’s about getting our firearms back.”

  “Are you all unarmed?” Dominguez asked, his tone laced with incredulity.

  “Hell, no, sir,” Bradshaw said. “We’ve got backups. We’ll be good for escort duty. You might want to ask Administration about financially covering the guns seized for evidence, though.”

  “I’ll get on it,” Dominguez said. “Bradshaw?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Good work out there today.”

  Bradshaw sighed again. “Yes, sir.” He closed his phone and slipped it back in his pocket. His eyes on the window to an interview room, where he could see Deputy Reczek taking a statement from Rivera. The activist’s body language screamed that she was visibly shaken, but doing her best to hold it together.

  “Hey.” Bradshaw looked to see DJ Simmons approaching.

  “Hey, DJ.”

  “You good, brother?” Simmons asked.

  Bradshaw let out a short, harsh laugh. “It’s never a good day to be under the microscope.” He noticed Simmons staring intently. “You have something on your mind. You’ve never been one to hold your tongue. Say on.”

  “You don’t hesitate,” Simmons said. “I may have not seen you in this kind of action until today, but you’re not somebody who freezes up.”

  “What’s your point?” Bradshaw asked.

  “As we were driving to the pickup site, I saw you engage the inbound threats. You dropped the first two, and then you froze as the truck peeled out.”

  Well, damn, Bradshaw thought. Didn’t realize I’d paused that long.

  “What’d you see?” Simmons asked.

  Bradshaw pursed his lips. “Do you trust me, DJ?”

  Simmons folded his arms. “Trust is a two-way street, my man.”

  “I need to rule something out before I can tell you what I think I saw,” Bradshaw said. “If I get confirmation, I’ll let you know as much as I can. If I tell you without hard evidence, you won’t believe me.”

  Simmons locked eyes with Bradshaw and searched for any sign of underhandedness or deception. When he found none, Simmons slowly nodded and said, “I’m gonna hold you to that. Don’t wait too long.”

  “I won’t,” Bradshaw said.

  The interview door opened, and Deputy Reczek walked out of the room. She made her way over to Bradshaw and Simmons.

  “I think we’re done here,” Reczek said.

  “Free to go?” Bradshaw asked.

  Reczek nodded and added, “Remain reachable in case there are follow-on questions.”

  “What’s the turnaround on getting our weapons back?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Probably a few weeks,” Reczek said. “Just gotta match ballistics. It’s as clean as a shoot gets. At this point, it’s a formality.”

  “Good,” Bradshaw said. “Replacing a gun isn’t gonna be cheap.”

  “Makes me glad I wasn’t firing,” Simmons said. “You think it hurts the piggy bank to replace a piece, try adding a few kids to the mix.”

  Rivera approached slowly. Bradshaw saw her and motioned her over. “Ma’am, Mr. Simmons will escort you to the vehicle. I just need to wrap up with Deputy Reczek and then I’ll be right out. Just a few minutes.”

  She nodded quietly. Bradshaw exchanged a nod with Simmons, who escorted Rivera out of the bullpen. When they were alone, Bradshaw looked to Reczek and folded his arms.

  “What’s the final tally?”

  Reczek folded her arms as well. “Eight dead. Two of those are officer-involved shootings. Couple of my deputies rushed the crowd and engaged the initial shooters. A couple protestors have injuries from being trampled, but nothing life-threatening. One detained for refusing to take directives from a peace officer, but the County Attorney isn’t going to try that case. He’ll get a couple hours to cool off, and then he’ll be kicked loose.” She exhaled audibly. “All in all, we lucked out.”

  “Sounds like it,” Bradshaw said. “Any progress on identifying the shooters?”

  Reczek’s expression darkened. “That’s an ongoing investigation. I’m not allowed to discuss the details.”

  “I’m not a random civilian or a journo,” Bradshaw countered. “I get needing case integrity, but at the same time, you’re not the only one with a job to do. Today’s hit radically alters my company’s threat matrix for the principal. I’m not asking for chapter and verse, but I could use a bone if you’re willing to throw me one.”

  Reczek fixed Bradshaw with a steely gaze. “If I tell you anything, you can’t pass it on to your principal until the news goes public. Her Twitter thumbs can hem up a lot of people, myself included.”

  “You have my word,” Bradshaw said.

  She sighed heavily, checked over both shoulders, then spoke conspiratorially. “We printed all the cadavers and ran them through IAFIS.”

  “I’ve heard that term on NCIS…national fingerprint database?”

  Reczek nodded. “Thing is, not everybody participates in the system. It’s voluntary. Arizona reports, but if these guys end up being out of state, we’re up a shit creek.”

  Bradshaw thought back to the truck’s driver, but decided against mentioning it. “Anything else?”

  “Out of the eight bodies, five of them are inked with white supremacy symbols,” Reczek said. “White Pride Worldwide, Celtic Crosses, Nazi-appropriated Nordic Runes, SS lightning bolts. Some have a couple, others are white pride ink blots.”

  That elicited a heavy exhale from Bradshaw. “Shit. Looks like the threat is legitimate.”

  “Some of the tats look like they’re done with pen ink,” Reczek said. “Probably done in lockup with a stinger. They’re good quality for prison ink, but they’re still prison tats. Gives us something to go on. Maybe they’ve done time in ADOC or BOP.”

  “Maybe,” Bradshaw said. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, one more thing,” Reczek said. “I’m not even supposed to know this yet, but apparently, some federal types have already taken over the case. They haven’t informed us yet because they want the locals doing the grunt work and then handing it to them on a silver platter.”

  “Feds?” Bradshaw asked. “What agency?”

  “You know as much as I do. Could be FBI, ATF, DE
A, ICE, Marshals…who knows? Just don’t be surprised if a G-Man pays you a visit.”

  Bradshaw nodded slowly. “I appreciate the heads up, and I appreciate your help, Chris.” He shook her hand. “Glad we got to work together.”

  “You too, Jack,” Reczek said. “Good to see there’s folks like you on the private side that know the meaning of ‘professionalism.’”

  “I try my best,” Bradshaw said with a grim smile.

  Not a word had been spoken since Bradshaw gave the order to roll out. Aside from the sound of Rivera’s thumbs furiously tapping on her iPhone, silence had loomed over the vehicle. Every so often, Bradshaw would glance at Rivera through the rearview mirror. The look on her face told him that she would not break around her bodyguards, but it would be a whole different story once she was in the privacy of her home.

  The first buildings that signified entrance into the Tucson metropolitan area came into view. Bradshaw shifted in his seat. He didn’t expect to have to use the Smith & Wesson snub-nose to ward off any would-be attackers, but then again, he hadn’t expected to have to use any weapons that day. Bradshaw kept on his toes. The job was not done until Rivera was home safe.

  He almost didn’t hear her voice at first. It was quiet and meek, the polar opposite of how she had carried herself at the beginning of the day.

  “Jack?”

  Bradshaw looked in the rearview to meet Rivera’s gaze. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Thank you.”

  Bradshaw’s eyes returned to the road. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m serious,” Rivera said. “You saved my life.”

  “Just doing our job, ma’am.”

  Rivera let out a heavy sigh. “Is bodyguard work always like this?”

  “No, ma’am,” Bradshaw said. He took a breath and added, “It’s actually a rarity. Most executive protection details are conducted without a single shot fired.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Rivera said with a forced laugh.

  “Understandable, given what you’ve been through today,” Bradshaw said. “But consider this, ma’am: including the current President, the Secret Service has been responsible for the protection of 19 Presidents. There have been only seven serious attempts where the protection detail had to get involved, and only one of those were successful. That’s well over a 90% success rate, and the one failure was the result of a policy fault that’s since been addressed.”

  Rivera’s brow creased. “I’m not the President, though.”

  “Ma’am, modern executive protection takes its cues from the Secret Service,” Bradshaw explained. “Obviously, we don’t have the same resources that they do, but we use the same base tactics and techniques. A lot of the guys doing executive protection on the private side are either former Secret Service themselves, trained or worked with the Secret Service, or learned from somebody in the first two categories.”

  “I see,” Rivera said.

  “It’s basic predatory mindset,” Bradshaw concluded. “If you look as if you have a strong security presence, that will ward away most would-be assassins. It’s the ones not warded away by security posture that you’ve got to worry about…and that’s why we train and plan the way that we do.”

  “You looked completely at home under fire,” Rivera said. “You didn’t panic. You made decisions on the fly and committed to them.”

  Bradshaw shifted uncomfortably. “That wasn’t the first time I have been shot at, ma’am.”

  “You also didn’t hesitate when that gunman tried to rush the stage, or when those other gunmen tried to cut off our escape,” Rivera said quietly.

  Bradshaw’s eyes locked on the road ahead. “As I said, ma’am, not the first time.”

  Rivera caught Bradshaw’s tone when he repeated himself. She merely nodded and looked down at her phone. Bradshaw and Parks, who drove the vehicle, shared a quick glance, then resumed scanning the road ahead. Both men were Army combat veterans, and neither wanted to continue that line of dialogue.

  In her perfect world, things could be solved with protests, voting, writing representatives, or donating to an NGO.

  Parks and Bradshaw knew the reality: some problems called for the application of precise, high-intensity violence. Their targets had brought guns to the fight and had an equal chance to prevail. Both would go home and sleep like infants at the end of the day.

  Well, at least Parks will, Bradshaw mused. He knew sleep would come hard that night, but not because of the men he’d killed.

  It was the man he had apparently failed to kill that would keep him up into the early morning hours.

  The detail dropped Rivera off at home and checked in with the assigned guard. A second guard would be posted, and field supervisors would be directed to make patrol hits once per hour. Rivera would receive the additional coverage free of charge. It was standard procedure to increase security in the wake of an attempted hit, though to Bradshaw’s knowledge, it was the first time the protocol had been activated.

  Once security procedures were locked in, the convoy departed for the First Guard Protective headquarters. Upon arrival, Bradshaw ordered Eegee’s via UberEats and had it delivered to the office. When it arrived a half-hour later, the men dug in and the hot wash began.

  The rules of a hot wash were simple. Everybody was open to constructive criticism, to the detail leader to the lowest ranking members. All points were to be debated thoroughly and logically. The objective was to figure out what had been done well and what needed improvement. It was a mainstay of effective military and tactical police entities worldwide, and when utilized properly, resulted in a better-trained and more knowledgeable unit.

  The consensus was that there simply was not anything more they could have done without additional manpower and/or law enforcement augmentation. The hitters had somebody with brains making the plans, but that clearly hadn’t extended to training. Bradshaw would have eaten the first round if the shooter knew what he was doing, but adrenaline had thrown off his aim. Again, Bradshaw’s mind returned to the driver.

  When the hot wash completed, the four Phoenix men were ordered to grab a hotel on the company dime and rest up for the drive home tomorrow. The Tucson men dispersed, with exception to Simmons and Bradshaw, who stayed behind to work on filing reports. The paperwork not only served as insurance against any claims one might make against the company in search of a quick payout, they also served to document lessons learned for future contracts.

  As Bradshaw was putting the finishing touches on his report, Bradshaw heard Miguel Dominguez’s voice.

  “Jack?”

  “Yes, sir?” Bradshaw said, turning away from the computer.

  Dominguez’s companion stood nearly a half-foot taller than him. The newcomer had curly, dark strawberry blond hair, and an intense gaze in his slate blue eyes. Even in his suit, it was apparent the man kept in shape.

  Bradshaw met the man’s eyes and immediately pegged him as prior service, most likely SOF. Most former special operators carried themselves in a fashion that could not be articulated, yet made them distinguishable to those who had served amongst the tribes.

  Dominguez opened his mouth to speak, but the man had already stepped forward, credentials in hand. “Jeremy Hawthorne, Homeland Security Investigations. I was looking to follow up on some items regarding the incident in Florence.”

  The credentials seemed real enough, and Bradshaw remembered Deputy Reczek’s warning that federal involvement would be imminent. He decided to play dumb. “I have no problem answering any questions, sir, though I am curious as to why HSI is getting involved.”

  “HSI shares jurisdiction with the FBI regarding terrorism and transnational crime,” Hawthorne said. “Given the Bureau’s workload, and given that the incident happened directly across the street from a facility under contract to the Department of Homeland Security, I was dispatched to take over the case.”

  “I see,” Bradshaw said quietly. “Was my statement to Pinal County Sheriff’s incomplete?”


  Hawthorne shook his head. “On the contrary, I found it to be professional and thorough, Mr. Bradshaw. Just wanted to go over a couple of the finer points, double tap some things.”

  “Sure,” Bradshaw said. He turned back to the computer, saved his report, and locked his computer. “I’m certain my boss won’t mind if we use the conference room.”

  “Not at all,” Dominguez said.

  Bradshaw led Hawthorne out of the operations office and across the way to the conference room. Hawthorne closed the door behind him as Bradshaw pulled up a chair along the wall. Bradshaw gestured to the trays and napkins on the table.

  “We’ve got some Eegee’s if you’re hungry,” Bradshaw asked.

  Hawthorne was perplexed. “Eegee’s?”

  So he’s not assigned here, Bradshaw mentally noted. “Sandwich chain shop native to Arizona. Great subs, even better slushies…though don’t let the locals hear you call it a ‘slushie.’ It’s an ‘Eegee.’”

  Hawthorne smiled and held up his hand. “I’m good. Just gonna knock this out and wrap up my report.”

  “Certainly.”

  Hawthorne took a seat and removed a pen and notepad from his jacket. He looked over his notes, point by point, then cleared his throat. “So, you were the one who initially spotted the shooters.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said.

  Hawthorne looked over his shoulder, then turned back to Bradshaw. “Scared me for a second, cowboy. Thought there was an officer on deck. Jer’s a good a name as any.”

  Bradshaw smiled politely. “Navy?”

  Hawthorne nodded. “Master-at-arms for a bit. SpecWar a bit longer.”

  Called it. “Were you a number or a color?”

  “Number. Team 3. You?”

  “Army. 3/75, mostly.” But you knew that, didn’t you?

  “I worked with the Batt boys a few times,” Hawthorne said. “Though you look a bit young for us to have crossed paths.”

  “I enlisted in ‘06.”

  “Ah, there it is,” Hawthorne said. “I got out in ‘05.”

  “Ah.”