Hawthorne smiled, then returned to the notepad. “You spotted the shooters. You said their body language gave away that something was off, and then you saw one go for a gun.” Bradshaw nodded, and Hawthorne continued.
“Any idea who these guys were?”
“The original contract cited threats from white supremacists as the reason Ms. Rivera solicited our services,” Bradshaw said. “All of the assailants today were white. I don’t want to speculate, and nor is it my job to investigate, though that seems like a solid launch point to me.”
“You’re right,” Hawthorne said. “I read the ME’s preliminary report. White pride tats, both professional and jailhouse variety. The white boys have an axe to grind with your client.”
“That, they do.”
Hawthorne set the notepad down. “Though, if we’re talking candidly for a moment…this nation wants the wall. They don’t want to press ‘2’ for English. They’re definitely not going to take kindly to an anchor baby preaching her ‘love, acceptance, and open borders’ spiel, especially not around these parts.”
Bradshaw nodded slowly. Though he agreed with most of Hawthorne’s points, that the man was willing to make so many borderline-questionable remarks so flippantly was a tell, and not one with which Bradshaw was comfortable.
“Though, points for picking a hell of a spokesman,” Hawthorne said. “Rivera’s a hell of a looker, especially for a border jumper. Built like a brick shithouse. Just jam a cock in her mouth so she can’t preach her SJW bullshit, you know?”
Hawthorne guffawed at his own comment, and Bradshaw continued to smile politely. What the hell is this?
The one-sided laughter subsided, and Hawthorne cleared his throat. “But, back on task. Basically, I wanna know if there was something you saw that you didn’t report to Pinal County, for any reason.”
Bradshaw’s eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting that I withheld information from law enforcement?”
Hawthorne held up his hands. “God, no, man. Like I said, your report was thorough as shit. I was more thinking along the lines of if there was something you thought you saw. You reported just the facts. Now I’m interested in the information that didn’t make the factual cut.”
Goddamn you, Garrett, Bradshaw thought, not for the first time over the past year. The official sworn statement would have been useless. He could have nudged Hawthorne towards the Agency, but for all Bradshaw knew, Diana Fairchild had shredded the copy he’d given her as soon as she learned an amended version was put into record. If she hadn’t shredded it, it could prove useful to the investigation, but there was no telling about the retribution from Garrett and whomever had pressured him into omitting the truth.
Bradshaw shook his head. “I wish I could have been of more help, but I’m afraid everything I saw was in the report.”
Hawthorne smiled and closed his notepad. “No worries.” He rose from the chair and extended his hand. “Thanks for your time, Jack.”
“Anytime, Jer,” Bradshaw said. “Good luck with the case.”
“Thanks,” Hawthorne said. He turned and walked out the door.
As soon as Hawthorne was out of earshot, Bradshaw pulled out his phone. He had been on the fence since the moments after the shooting. Part of him told him to leave well enough alone, but the driver’s face continued to haunt him. Bradshaw knew the moment he closed his eyes, he’d see the face again, immediately followed by Logan Fox’s death in its slow-motion infamy. Judging from Hawthorne’s comments, the government seemed more concerned about Rivera’s opposition to their policies than about the fact that an assassination was nearly successful a short distance from one of their facilities.
It was time to make a call.
Bradshaw pulled out his Kyocera and dialed the number from memory. The ringing tone only lingered two iterations before the other party picked up.
“Yeah.”
“It’s me.”
“Bradshaw? You okay? Saw the news.”
“I’m fine. Can you meet me in Casa Grande in a couple of hours?”
There was a low whistle from the other party. “Kinda short notice.”
“Wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t pressing.”
“Okay…” There was tapping at a keyboard. “There’s a Hate Chicken off of Florence Boulevard and the freeway. I can meet you there at about…20:00.”
“That works,” the other party said. “I’ll see you there.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tucson, Arizona
20 August 2018
18:45 hours Tango (21 August 01:45 hours Zulu)
Much like their targets, Bill Pfarrer and Mark Gerald returned to the Tucson metro area in silence. The difference was that they had driven north, ran surveillance detection routes around Scottsdale, and then made their way back to Interstate 10. They stopped for gas once, just north of Casa Grande, before heading straight to the clubhouse. The entire time, Gerald remained in the right lane and drove exactly the speed limit. Both Gerald and Pfarrer kept their eyes peeled for any sign of the law. They hoped that law enforcement and the private PSD had been too occupied to notice the truck’s plates, but both knew better than to hang their hats on hope.
The clubhouse was called Joe’s. It was located at Ruthrauff Road and Gold Avenue, west of La Cholla. It was a dive bar until the recession hit. Pfarrer had scooped it up three years earlier as a safe place for white people to congregate, particularly those whose eyes had been opened. With the patronage from the White Resistance Movement, there was just enough business to keep it afloat, but it remained low key enough to avoid attention from law enforcement. The idiot who had been arrested for threatening the spic whore could flip the location to the law, but even if he did, there would not be much to find. Nothing illegal was kept on-site, and all liquor and fire codes were fastidiously observed.
A pair of Pfarrer’s soldiers stood ready as the old, gray Chevy pulled into the Joe’s parking lot. Gerald left the keys in the engine as he shifted it into park. Pfarrer and Gerald got out of the truck, and the former addressed the greeting party.
“Take it to the sticks and burn it,” Pfarrer ordered.
“Yes, sir,” one of the soldiers said.
Pfarrer followed Gerald inside, and they marched straight to the store room. Once secured within, Pfarrer found the nearest object—an empty bottle of Heineken on a table—and hurled it across the room in frustration.
“Goddamn it!” he shouted, running his hands over his face and hair. Pfarrer forced himself to breathe deeply and bring his heart rate down. “Eight men lost in one operation.” His glare fell upon Gerald. “You told me that she’d hired security, not the fucking Secret Service!”
“We underestimated her,” Gerald said quietly. “She clearly did not skimp on her security.”
“No fucking shit!” Pfarrer rasped. He found a remote control and turned on the television mounted on the far wall. The TV was turned to Fox News, where Kristin Fisher was in the middle of a breaking news update regarding the hit. Pfarrer pointed to the TV and said, “Eight brave men gave their lives in defense of their race, and now they’re going to be trotted out by the kikes and mud people as traitors—no, worse, common criminals! And that fucking wetback cunt is still breathing!”
“The important thing now is that we make sure their deaths are not in vain,” Gerald said evenly.
Pfarrer stood with his hands on his hips, breathing through his nose. “How do you suggest we go about that?”
“Patience,” Gerald cautioned. “We bide our time. She’s emboldened. We let the trail go cold. I manage the bar, you keep going to work, and we don’t rock the boat. Eventually, that boldness will lead to either her making another aggressive move to defend the wetbacks, letting her guard down, or both. That is when we strike.”
Pfarrer hung his head as he contemplated the proposal. Gerald stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on Pfarrer’s shoulder. “This is a war, brother. It’s not a sprint. It’s a marathon. Yes, the unclean won the battle today. That simpl
y means we redouble our efforts, remember our aim, and rebound.”
“You’re right,” Pfarrer said after a moment. He exhaled audibly. “I just don’t like losing people. One of our men is worth far more than a pack of mud filth.”
“Yes, they are,” Gerald agreed. “And your reaction is understandable. But understand this: you’re a general in the real resistance. Not the resistance hash-tagged by liberasts or the Multicultural Brigade. You must exude calm and confidence. We are so close to starting the race war, and for once, there is a President close enough to our ideals that he will side with us. We just need the catalyst.”
Pfarrer looked his second-in-command in the eyes and smiled. “Every good general has an aide-de-camp at his side, and I am glad that you are mine, Mark.”
Gerald smiled. “Me too, brother.” He clapped Pfarrer on the shoulder a couple of times and said, “I’m going to grab a smoke.”
“Bring me a beer on your way back in,” Pfarrer said.
“Will do.”
Gerald closed the storeroom door behind him and made his way out of the front door. It was still balmy outside, with no sign of rain. The sun had just slipped beneath the horizon. Gerald took in the scene for a beat, then walked around the corner. He pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds from his pocket and lit one up. Gerald glanced both ways to make sure he was alone, then pulled out his Kyocera flip phone. He dialed the number from memory, and then waited. After four ringing tones, the other person picked up.
“Yes,” the person said in flawless English.
“We need to meet,” Gerald said. “There have been developments.”
“Are you fine?” the other person asked.
“Yes,” Gerald said, with a shake of the head. “For now. That could change.” He paused a beat. “Have you seen the news?”
“Yes. Tragic and senseless.”
Gerald took a deep breath. “That was some fine security work. I would very much like to know whom she hired.”
Silenced filled the call as the other party understood Gerald’s meaning. “Okay. Meet me here tomorrow afternoon. We will discuss it.”
Gerald hung up the phone and deleted the number from his call history. With his head leaned against the building, he continued to pull on the cigarette, his mind already hard at work at constructing a narrative to explain his coming absence.
Casa Grande, Arizona
20 August 2018
19:58 hours Tango (21 August 02:58 hours Zulu)
Even with the Eegee’s he’d had at the hot wash, Bradshaw was famished. When he arrived at the Chick-fil-A 20 minutes prior to the agreed meeting time, he ordered a spicy deluxe sandwich, an order of Chick-n-Strips, a medium order of waffle fries, and a large sweet tea. The exuberant teenaged girl working the register had maintained her customer service smile throughout the order. If she was put off by Bradshaw’s dour demeanor, she refused to show it. Bradshaw handed her a $20 bill to cover the order, received his change, and took a seat. Within two minutes, the order was brought to him, and he dug in.
Bradshaw polished off the sandwich and strips within three minutes and was dipping a waffle fry into the famed Chick-fil-A sauce when his contact walked in. The two men made eye contact, and the newcomer approached Bradshaw’s table.
“A table and not a booth,” the man said. “Located in a corner where you have eyes on all exits without turning in your seat like an asshole.” He shook his head and smiled. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“You have,” Bradshaw said without looking up from the remnants of his meal. “Time was that you remembered that 15 minutes prior was on-time, on-time was late, and late meant a smoke session.”
“Lucky for me, I’m not in the Army anymore.”
Bradshaw smirked as he gestured to the seat across from him. Rick Dalton was a couple of inches shorter than Bradshaw, with a tan complexion and almond-shaped eyes that testified to the Filipino block of his ethnic background. The German and Irish in him was subtly manifested by his complexion being a few shades lighter than most Filipinos. Clean-shaven, with neatly trimmed hair, Dalton wore his gray suit well. Bradshaw could see the Heckler & Koch USP Compact on Dalton’s hip beneath the suit jacket, as well as the clip-on badge that declared his status as a sworn law enforcement agent with Immigration and Customs Enforcement.
“We go to Hate Chicken, and you don’t order for me?” Dalton shook his head. “You’re a real son of a bitch, Bradshaw.”
“Wasn’t sure if you’d eaten,” Bradshaw said simply as he stuffed another sauce-covered waffle fry in his mouth.
“Might wanna keep this meal from your client,” Dalton said. “She bats for both teams.”
“Didn’t know that.”
Dalton nodded. “Got the full scoop on her Twitter. Made a lot of proclamations during Pride. She’s shared more than one article talking about how Chick-fil-A is backed by a bunch of Bible-thumping homophobes. She might hand you walking papers.”
Bradshaw shrugged. “That’d be her prerogative.”
“You know me, though,” Dalton said. “Goddamned Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi could own Chick-fil-A and I’d still buy from him because they make some fucking good chicken.”
“Go order something,” Bradshaw said. “I’ll wait.”
Dalton grinned, then went to the counter and placed his order. A few moments later, he returned to the table with a drink in hand.
“How’s Ashley? The kids?” Bradshaw asked.
“They’re good,” Dalton said. “Ashley’s still working at St. Joseph’s, and the kids keep getting bigger. But, that’s not why you called me for the first time in six months.”
“No, it’s not,” Bradshaw admitted. He glanced over both shoulders, then said, “This needs to be kept between us. You’ll find out why in a moment.”
“Okay,” Dalton said.
“What can you tell me about a man named Jeremy Hawthorne?”
Dalton’s sunny expression faltered. “What about him?”
“He’s working the case regarding the guys that tried to hit my principal,” Bradshaw explained. “He’s not from around here, and yet he’s carrying the ball.” When Dalton shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Bradshaw continued, “Anything we say stays here. I’m just trying to tighten my threat matrix to better protect my principal.”
“You’re asking for a huge leap of faith,” Dalton said. “Yeah, we’re both Rangers. We chewed Iraqi dirt together. At the same time, I’m a federal agent, Jack. I can’t just start spilling to you because we served together.”
Bradshaw glanced around again. “I can’t give you the full version.”
“Give me what you can.”
Bradshaw exhaled audibly and pursed his lips. “You remember Logan Fox.”
Dalton hung his head. “Yeah. It was a shame to hear he’d bought the farm.”
“I was there when he died,” Bradshaw said. “Don’t ask me where.”
“Okay…”
“We got hit by a massive enemy force. There were Russians advising the OPFOR that night. Problem is…I was the only one willing to go on record as having seen them, and command ordered me to sweep it under the rug.”
Dalton’s countenance darkened. “I can’t say that I’m surprised. The Russian investigation hadn’t gained steam back then. Now the administration can pretend that the Russians getting froggy in Syria and Afghanistan are brand new developments, one-off instances rather than pieces in a coordinated campaign.”
“Yeah,” Bradshaw said. “But there’s a plot twist. And you’re gonna have to trust me on this.”
“Okay.”
Bradshaw took a deep breath. “I killed a few of the Russian advisers. Most were dragged off the battlefield. One in particular, I watched catch a .308 round square to the chest.”
“Okay…”
Bradshaw leaned forward, his tone barely above a whisper. “I saw that Russian today at the rally, driving a vehicle that dropped off four of the shooters.”
Dalton laughed incredulously a
s he held up his hands. “Okay, okay. So, let me get this straight. While under fire, getting your principal off the X, you saw a man you shot over a year ago.”
“I know what I saw,” Bradshaw growled. “I’ll never forget that face.”
Footsteps approached, and both Dalton and Bradshaw were quiet as another teenaged girl delivered Dalton’s food. “Here you go, sir.”
Dalton smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome!”
Once the worker wandered out of earshot, Dalton leaned back in. “Do you know how ridiculous this is going to sound to anybody outside of this table?”
“That’s why I came to you,” Bradshaw said. “You know me. You know I wouldn’t exaggerate or invent something like this. If I’m telling it to you, it’s real.”
Dalton exhaled and shook his head slowly as he started to unwrap his spicy chicken deluxe sandwich. “Man…”
“First things first. Tell me about Hawthorne.”
Dalton dipped his sandwich in Chick-fil-A sauce and took a bite. As he chewed, he said, “Hawthorne’s part of a special unit based out of DC. From what I’m hearing, it’s not an HSI unit, or even ICE at large. More of an interagency task force.”
“That’s all you’ve got?” Bradshaw asked.
“Hawthorne arrived at my office three days ago with six other dudes. Three HSI guys, a DEA guy, and a dude from the Secret Service. Says they’re investigating a white supremacist threat in the region.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Bradshaw said. “Why send somebody from DC for a case that’s best left to local agencies or the Bureau?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Dalton said. “But Hawthorne’s the real deal. Former SEAL, major gang investigator, and also did time as an SRT commander. He’s a heavy hitter, Jack. Some of the other guys on his crew have the look, too. If you’re on his radar, you need to mind your Ps and Qs. That dude don’t fuck around.”
“All right,” Bradshaw said as he nodded slowly. “Is there any way to suggest to him a Russian angle to these white supremacists?”
Fault Lines Page 13
