“Are you all right?” Bradshaw asked.
Rivera shook her head slowly as she sloshed the wine around inside the glass. “I’ve seen some shit,” she said. “Grew up in the barrio in Nogy. Did a stint as an EMT with the Peace Corps in Mexico. Been close to some fucked up shit, especially when the cartel’s involved. Florence shouldn’t be affecting me like it is…but it is.” She downed the second glass of wine and reached for the bottle again.
“Were you shot at in Mexico?” Bradshaw asked.
Rivera shook her head. “Not directly.”
“There’s a world of difference between hearing gunfire and having it trained your way,” Bradshaw said. “The first time you’ve got rounds inbound, there’s a moment where you contend with your mortality. If you’ve got the training, the moment passes.”
“And if I don’t?” Rivera asked.
“It’ll still pass. Just takes a bit longer.”
Rivera sipped on her third glass of wine. “It’s easier when I’m around people. Forget about my own troubles. Focus on those around me.”
Bradshaw nodded. “Solitude is when your mind tends to inflict the most damage upon itself.”
“Exactly,” Rivera said. “And I’m ashamed to say I’m scared. I’m ashamed to say a part of me wants to pack it in and hide out.”
Bradshaw reached for his water, took a drink, and cleared his throat. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Am I wearing a uniform?” Rivera snorted. “I’m an adult. Speak your mind.”
“That line of thought needs to stop right there,” Bradshaw said. “Fear is shorthand for ‘survival instinct.’ It’s what kept humans alive for millennia and allowed us to ascend the food chain.”
“Easy to say when you’re a fearless billy badass.”
Bradshaw cocked an eyebrow. “You thought I wasn’t scared?” he asked incredulously.
“You weren’t, were you?”
“You’re goddamn right, I was scared,” Bradshaw said, surprising himself with his own boldness. Fuck it. You’re committed. He took a deep breath and said, “First time I was shot at was about two weeks into my first tour. We were hitting an AQI target in Tal Afar—”
Rivera held up her hand to stop Bradshaw and smiled. “While I love that you’re opening up, you’re gonna have to slow it down for me. AQI? Tal Afar?”
“Sorry,” Bradshaw said. “al-Qaeda in Iraq was one of the predominant insurgent groups in the region at the time. They were the predecessors to ISIS. Founded by a violent Jordanian felon who found God in lockup. Combine the violent ideology of Salafist jihadism with the savage methodology of your typical convict, and you get the formula for what we see coming out of Iraq and Syria in the here and now.”
“And Tal Afar?”
“Small Iraqi city about 40 miles west of Mosul. It was an AQI hotbed while I was there.”
Rivera nodded, the wine glass hovering beneath her lips. “Thank you. Continue.”
“We were trying to roll up an AQI bombmaker. I was the first one through the door. One of the insurgents had just picked up his AK and let rip with a burst. The only reason I’m alive today is because he panicked and didn’t take a half-second to aim properly. Rounds flew over my head. By the time I got my machine gun on him, my buddy had cut him down. I shook it off, we found our man, brought him back, and bedded down.”
Bradshaw sighed and took another sip of water before continuing. “Except, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the feel of rounds snapping past my head. That was the moment that everything my drill sergeants, my Ranger Instructors, and my NCOs had been trying to hammer home snapped into focus. It wasn’t a game. It’s life and death shit.” He hung his head and eyed the ground as he confessed something that few people knew. “I wondered if I’d made a mistake. I’d wanted to be a soldier. I was a hair away from coming home in a flag-draped coffin.”
Rivera had set the wine glass down and was leaned forward, elbows on her thighs and hands interlaced, her eyes locked on him. “How did you cope with that?”
Bradshaw met her gaze. “Honestly?” She nodded. “I accepted that, somewhere out there, there is a bullet with my name on it. I could either fret about it every waking hour and let that fear consume me, or I could embrace it and do what was necessary to watch my buddies’ backs.”
Rivera nodded slowly. “So you became a dead man walking.”
“Yes,” Bradshaw said. “That’s not to say I had a death wish, or that I took unnecessary risks. I still went out with the intent of maximizing my chances of survival. At the same time, I stopped worrying about my bullet. It’s through embracing the finality of life that I was able to focus on the mission.”
“I see.”
“That fear still exists. It never subsides, no matter how many times you’re shot at, punched, stabbed, blown up, whatever. Embracing it allows me to focus on accomplishing the mission. Perhaps it would behoove you to go and do likewise.”
Rivera leaned back against the couch, her hands on her stomach and her eyes on the ceiling. “Wow.”
“You’ve got the tools to do it,” Bradshaw said. “I imagine you had some gnarly patients when you worked south of the border. You pushed through the blood and gore to accomplish the mission of saving your patients. Now, you just have to push through the fear in order to accomplish your political motives.”
Rivera’s eyes remained focused upward. “Do you agree with my political motives, Jack?”
“Not going to touch that,” Bradshaw said as he reached for his water. “And if you order me, I’ll have to refuse to obey.”
Rivera looked to Bradshaw and gave him a small smile. “You know you just answered the question in a round-about way. If you agreed with me, you’d have told me privately.”
Bradshaw finished the water and cleared his throat. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“I had you pegged for a conservative the moment I saw you,” Rivera said. “Your professional pedigree is a dead giveaway. I’ve met liberal veterans, but they’re few and far between. Most of them work in support roles. A meat-eater like you? Definitely a conservative. But, I can also tell you’re different from your contemporaries.”
Bradshaw was intrigued. “How so?”
“You’re not a conservative based on emotional rhetoric. You’re an observant man. You form your opinions based upon the data before you. Most of what you’ve seen and done lends itself towards a right-leaning slant. I have no doubt that if you spent enough time with people outside of your normal spectrum, you’d shift.” She saw the look on his face and laughed. “I’m not saying you’d be a card-carrying Democrat or you’d go stumping for a socialist. I am saying your views about people will shift.”
Bradshaw nodded slowly. “Would you say the same about yourself?”
“In what way?”
“If I recall correctly, you made a statement that insinuated a support of gun control policies.”
Rivera nodded. “Guilty as charged.”
“Ever shot a firearm?”
“A couple of times.” She shook her head. “Didn’t care much for it.”
“So, perhaps not somebody taking you to the range, then. But perhaps if you talked with people who own and carry firearms to protect themselves, heard their stories in a non-confrontational manner…think your views would shift?”
“It’s a possibility,” Rivera allowed. “I’m always game to hear opposing viewpoints.”
An expression started to form on Bradshaw’s face, but he masked it. “Good to know.”
Rivera looked at Bradshaw askance. “You’ve got something on your mind, Jack. I’m hard to offend. Spit it out.”
Bradshaw shifted uncomfortably in his seat. With a sigh, he decided to take her at her word. “I recall a case where you represented a member of MS-13 whom you alleged had had their civil rights violated by law enforcement.”
Rivera reached for her wineglass. “What of it?”
“Just trying to get a baseline as to your motivation,” Bradshaw said.
&n
bsp; “Elaborate?”
Bradshaw sighed again. “Most of your clients have been undocumented aliens facing deportation. That, I get. I don’t get why you’d defend gang bangers who rape, murder, deal drugs to kids, and prostitute children.”
Rivera nodded, her face an expression of understanding. “I can see why you’d find that distasteful. And the honest truth is, I found it distasteful, too. That leads to the question, why defend them?” Bradshaw gave her a nod, and she continued. “The answer is, I find government abuse of power to be just as distasteful. We’re a nation governed by laws, not by emotion. Surely, as one who espouses small government views, you can appreciate that.”
“I understand where you’re coming from,” Bradshaw said. “I still don’t like it.”
“People watch courtroom dramas and think that lawyers are either dogged prosecutors, scumbag Mob lawyers, or crusading activists. The common theme is that there is a good guy and a bad guy.” Rivera smiled wistfully as she took a sip of wine. “The truth is, sometimes there aren’t any good guys. In that case, it is strictly the lesser of two evils. I’d rather the government’s power be checked and a bad guy walk than give the government the ability to incarcerate the right person for the wrong reasons.”
Rivera took another sip of wine before she recommenced. “I can live with that because I know from statistics that somebody in the life is going to reoffend. I might help them walk that day, but they’ll fuck up, and when they do, the government can incarcerate them the right way. I’m not going to give them leeway to abuse their power because history has shown that when that’s the case, it’s going to be the non-white, non-male, non-Christian types that will suffer the worst.”
“You honestly believe that only minorities, women, and non-Christians get the short end of the stick?” Bradshaw asked as evenly as he could.
“Never said that,” Rivera corrected with an upheld finger. “Suffering permeates all demographics. It’s just that this nation’s laws were long designed to mitigate that suffering for WASP male property owners. We’re still working on curing the residual effects.”
Bradshaw held his tongue, recognizing he was well off the reservation and deep in a minefield. Still, there was one point on which he wanted clarification.
“If you know MS-13 are scumbags, why not speak out against them? That would really help your case when talking about immigration reform.”
“That would appear to be the case on the surface,” Rivera allowed. “There are two realities you fail to recognize.”
“Which are?”
“The current rhetoric uses examples of crimes by migrants who happen to be MS-13 to paint all migrants with the same fear-mongering brush. Speaking out against MS-13 would just give the nativists ammunition.”
“And the second?”
Rivera bit the corner of her lip and glanced off to her right. “To an outsider looking in, progressives have a strict ideological purity test. This is true, to a degree. At the same time…we’re not robots. We’re people. We have beliefs that deviate from the baseline.” She sighed and looked back to Bradshaw. “I think MS-13 are pieces of shit, and I wouldn’t shed one tear if each one were rounded up and locked up, so long as due process was observed. I mention that around some of my colleagues, and I’d get the cold shoulder. Say that on the news, I’d become an overnight pariah.”
Bradshaw nodded slowly. “Fair enough. I can think of a couple of topics on the right that would elicit a similar reaction.” He looked down at his watch: 18:55. “And on that note, I’ll leave you to it.” He rose from the chair and made for the door.
“Any chance you could clock out and have a glass of something stronger?” Rivera asked. “I’d like to keep talking.”
Bradshaw stopped in his tracks and looked at her. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Curiosity filled her eyes. “Aw, c’mon.” A smile played upon her lips. “Take a risk. You might learn something.” She shrugged, and the smile grew. “Or, maybe you’ll teach me something. Let’s find out.”
“I wish I could,” Bradshaw said.
The smile remained on Rivera’s face, but her eyes narrowed. “Nobody would know.”
“The guard outside would,” Bradshaw said. “So would I.”
She hung her head and traced a finger around the rim of the wine glass. He slipped his hands in his pockets and sighed.
“You seem like a nice person, Gabby, political disagreements notwithstanding. Under different circumstances, I’d be willing to entertain the notion. As is, you’re my principal. I’m your executive protection agent. I’ve ventured further from my comfort zone that I have with most principals. We’re at that boundary line I mentioned earlier. I can’t discard my integrity.”
Rivera looked up and smiled. “I can respect that. It’s a shame, though. Rare to find somebody from a radically different perspective with whom I can hold an intelligent conversation.” She looked off to the side and chuckled. “That’s if they’re not scared off outright by my intellect.”
“At the risk of stating the obvious, you’re better off without someone that runs at the sign of your smarts.”
“You’re a bargain,” Rivera said playfully. “Bodyguard and life counselor all in one.”
Bradshaw snorted. “If you’re relying on me for life advice, something’s gone seriously wrong.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Rivera said.
Bradshaw nodded to her and said, “I’ll see you in the morning, Gabby.”
“Bright and early,” she said with a smile. “Good night, Jack.”
Bradshaw had made fast time getting home. Within a few minutes of arrival, he had changed into his tan T-shirt, Ranger silkies, and running shoes. Fifteen minutes later, he parked by the elephant statue at Reid Park. Bradshaw fastened his fanny pack, which held his Glock 19—standing in for the Walther PPQ that had been confiscated in Florence—as well as his wallet, keys, and flip phone. Bradshaw crossed the street to the path that encircled the Randolph Dell Urich Golf Course, jogged in place to warm up, then started his run.
Bradshaw didn’t wear headphones when he ran, seeing it as an impediment to situational awareness. Instead, around the half-mile mark, he started singing cadence in his head, keeping pace with the rhythm:
When I get to heaven
Saint Peter’s gonna say,
“How’d you earn your living, boy?
How’d you earn your pay?”
I reply with a whole lot anger,
“Made my living as an Airborne Ranger…”
Running hadn’t always been one of Bradshaw’s passions. In high school, he only ran as far as the coaches made him, preferring strength training. It wasn’t until after he arrived at 3rd Ranger Battalion, going on 10 mile runs with his platoon, that Bradshaw came to appreciate runner’s high. There was a certain moment where Bradshaw would allow his body to go on autopilot, riding the endorphin-induced euphoria. It came to where Bradshaw began running while on leave and in his off-time, even going so far as to compete in half-marathons for pleasure.
Bradshaw entered the final stretch of his third and final lap. Even with the runner’s high in full swing, his legs screamed for respite. He gritted his teeth and stepped it out. Bradshaw rounded the intersection of 22nd and Randolph Way, where he entered the straightway. After another hundred meters, Bradshaw finally allowed himself to slow to a walk. He rested his hands on top of his head to expand his lungs and turned back towards the intersection. Bradshaw took his time getting there, breathing deep through his nose for four counts and out of his mouth for six.
By the time he reached the intersection, his heart rate had slipped under 100 beats per minute, though he still had some ways to go before he reached his resting rate. Bradshaw looked at a nearby bench and found a small pile of green crumbled chalk just off to its right. He took a seat at that end of the bench and waited a beat, watching for anybody taking an unusual interest in him. When he found nobody, Bradshaw reached beneath the bench a
nd felt along the leg until he felt a small, hard box.
Bradshaw pulled the box from the chair and confirmed what he’d suspected: it was a lock box, which had been attached to the bench via a magnet. Box in hand, he jogged across Randolph Way and back to his car. Once he was inside and the doors were secured, Bradshaw saw that there was a number combination lock. Dalton had not discussed that at the meeting, and he was skittish about Bradshaw leaving an electronic trail through continued contact, which led Bradshaw to believe Dalton would use a combination that would readily come to both of their minds.
It took Bradshaw 15 seconds to figure it out. He set the combination to 3-3-7-5 and thumbed the switch. The lock box popped open, and Bradshaw smiled.
Charlie 3/75. Rangers lead the way.
Bradshaw took a look inside and found a red thumb drive. He closed the lockbox, set it in the passenger seat, and slid the keys into the ignition. A shower was in order, as well as dinner and coffee. He had a long night of reading ahead of him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tucson, Arizona
22 August 2018
22:40 hours Tango (23 August 05:40 Zulu)
Four of them had gathered in Joe’s storeroom, which was the unofficial meeting place for the White Resistance Movement. They were the core leadership, the ones who set the strategy. Three of the four had been with the group from early on, and all of them had committed “crimes” against the Zionist Occupational Government in defense of their race. All had participated in the planning of the failed hit on Gabriela Rivera.
Bill Pfarrer took a seat at the table, a six-pack of Hacker-Pschorr Oktoberfest Märzen in hand. He kept it stored away for special occasions and leadership meetings. The Germans truly knew their beer, which Pfarrer took as further evidence of the white race’s supremacy. Beaner brew tasted like horse piss, and the niggers had never created a liquor in their lives, at least nothing worth writing home about.
“You kept the details pretty scant in the general meeting,” Shawn Taylor said, his beady brown eyes narrowed. Along with Mark Gerald, Taylor oversaw the Resistance’s paramilitary training, and was suited to the job with his combat experience. The tall, heavyset man sported a chinstrap beard, dark hair styled in a crew cut, and a perpetual scowl. Taylor had done a tour each in Iraq and Afghanistan with the Oregon Army National Guard, and had earned his Combat Infantryman Badge. Taylor was also the group’s gunsmith, performing modifications and keeping up with weapons and gear.
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