Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  “That’s because I want to placate the rank and file,” Pfarrer said. “The last thing I need is for one of them to lash out and bring down heat on the group.”

  “Perhaps we oughta lash out.” This came from Ricky Peters. A short, slender man with blond hair, blue eyes, and a rat face, Peters hailed from Detroit, where he had been bullied by the mud people because of his fair features. Peters had not fared much better in Sierra Vista, where he was subject to abuse from Mexicans. He was the only man in the room who had not served in the military, but he had proven a quick study in fieldcraft and logged hundreds of hours in border patrols, both legitimate and illicit. Peters was in command of recruitment, and maintained social media accounts on every major platform, designed to lure in whites disenfranchised by multiculturalism and cultural Marxism.

  “No,” Pfarrer said as he cracked the top off of his beer.

  Peters canted his head to the side as he stared at Pfarrer incredulously. “We’re a laughing stock right now, Bill. There’s people online right now taunting us, calling our race ‘weak,’ saying if we can’t kill a bunch of rent-a-cops in suits, then perhaps we oughta go extinct. Recruitment is taking a hit. Three prospects have flat out said they want nothing to do with the Resistance, and another two have ghosted. Our brothers perished at the hands of fuckin’ race traitors. They must be avenged.”

  Mark Gerald spoke up. “I don’t give a shit what they’re saying online. Let them speak. Emotional governance leads to mistakes, and mistakes are exactly what the ZOG’s enforcers are waiting for. If those talking shit online think they can do better, let them try. They may prove to be useful idiots who draw the authority’s attention away from us. As for this movement, the best way to avenge our brothers is to stay the course.”

  “They won’t be expecting another hit now,” Peters pressed.

  “Oh, yes, they will,” Pfarrer said.

  “How do ya know, boss?”

  “Because that’s what I’d expect.”

  Peters paused for consideration. He knew of Pfarrer’s background as a private military contractor with Blackwater, which was how he amassed the small personal fortune necessary to establish his trucking company. Personal security details were his bread and butter, and they had counted on that to help them strike down Rivera. His faith in Pfarrer’s knowledge had been shaken, but not so much to where he doubted Pfarrer’s expertise wholesale.

  Pfarrer seemed to read Peters’s mind and spoke up. “We underestimated the enemy. That means I underestimated the enemy. I thought she would only be able to afford bottom-of-the-barrel heavies. As it turns out, she possesses the wherewithal to contract guys who know what they’re doing. I won’t make that same mistake twice. Part of that entails respecting the enemy, We don’t attack them while their guard’s up. We wait for them to grow complacent, select the battlefield, and strike when it is to our advantage.”

  Seemingly mollified for the moment, Peters cracked open his beer and took a swig. Taylor looked to Pfarrer and said, “What do we do now?”

  “We bide our time,” Gerald answered for Pfarrer. “We lay low. Keep our eyes on the news and watch for an opening. An opportunity will reveal itself. In the meantime, we push the training pace. I think a few days at the ranch with the troops is in order. A live fire exercise, perhaps?”

  Taylor nodded slowly. “We could set up a shoot house. Maybe a Nick-at-Nite course. Some other drills that ought to keep the blood pumping and the morale high.”

  “Nick-at-Nite?” Peters asked.

  “Live fire drill,” Pfarrer said. “Crawl under barbed wire while guns fire overhead. Get you used to the sound of gunfire in a firefight.” He nodded. “Shawn, you and Mark can head out tomorrow. Start setting something up. Take time off; I’ll cover the hours. I’d like to build up to a platoon-sized exercise.”

  “Can do easy, boss,” Taylor said.

  Pfarrer raised his beer high. “To Joseph Foster, Ernest Young, Frank Long, Russell Hall, Martin Moore, John Lee, Justin Barnes, and Phillip Hill. Sons. Husbands. Patriots of the white race. Fair winds and following seas.”

  “Until Valhalla,” Gerald said.

  “Until Valhalla,” Pfarrer, Peters, and Taylor said in unison. They clinked the bottles together, tapped the bottoms on the table, then took a deep swig of their brew. A somber quietude settled over the room as they reflected upon the memories of brave men willing to stand for what was right.

  Pfarrer took another sip of the Märzen and stared at no particular point on the wall. They would avenge their brothers. The slow-burning rage within demanded a violent recompense. It was just a matter of when.

  Most of the file that Dalton had provided Bradshaw was compiled by the ATF, with some follow-on reports from the FBI. He had read the file back to front, both the night that he received it and in the couple of hours between when Bradshaw clocked out and when he started his surveillance. He could quote entire blocks from memory, and he was certain he would have it entirely memorized in the next couple of days.

  The White Resistance Movement popped up on the previous administration’s radar around 2012, though not by that name. They were one of many groups under the umbrella of the Minuteman movement, conducting paramilitary patrols of the border in hunt of undocumented aliens and drug smugglers. According to Border Patrol incident reports obtained by the FBI, the group was responsible for effecting over 200 citizen arrests between 2010 and 2012. The members of the patrols would give their names but had no name for their group.

  The most frequent patrol leader was a man named William Pfarrer. Bradshaw noted he bared a passing resemblance to the passenger in the truck at Florence, but he admittedly had been more focused on the Russian. Pfarrer was a Marine infantry veteran with a stellar service record tactically, but who also had counseling statements about racist remarks he made over the years. Bradshaw was half-surprised that investigators were able to dig those up, as the procedure was to destroy those when a service member relocated or separated entirely. What prevented full surprise was knowing how sloppy the military was when it came to records, both in regards to maintenance and destruction.

  Pfarrer owned a trucking company called Express Truck Delivery Services, which had been founded in Virginia and then relocated to Arizona. He was married with three children, and aside from the ATF investigation into his group, he possessed no criminal record. It looked as if he obtained the money to buy a truck fleet through his work with Academi, then known as Blackwater.

  The investigation into the White Resistance Movement began after a pair of notable incidents. In one, automatic weapons fire was heard near Sasabe, and shortly thereafter, a Border Patrol Agent made contact with Pfarrer and a few of his men nearby. The second incident involved the White Resistance Movement capturing a group of 10 undocumented aliens, where several of them had been tuned up pretty badly. The Border Patrol Agent who received those UDAs also overheard racially charged dialogue between two of the WRM’s patrol members, and reported all of it to cover his six, in case the UDAs alleged they had received their injuries at the hands of the Border Patrol.

  That was enough for ATF to launch an investigation. An undercover agent was placed inside of Pfarrer’s company. The agent slowly gained Pfarrer’s confidence and was recruited for the border patrols. The investigation lasted nine months. In the final month, the undercover was conducting a patrol on the border when the group evaded the cover team. The agent disappeared and had not been heard from since. ATF, with the assistance of the FBI, sweated Pfarrer and his company, who vehemently denied allegations of being members of a white nationalist group or of committing any wrongdoing.

  With a lack of evidence, the FBI and the ATF retreated and kept a close eye on Pfarrer and the WRM. When the administrations changed, the focus shifted from white domestic terrorism to jihadism and black extremism, and the ATF and FBI were ordered to reassign their agents to other cases accordingly.

  Several locations were logged and surveilled during the nine-month investiga
tory period. Pfarrer’s house was one, and Express Truck Delivery Services was another. The third was Joe’s, a bar on Tucson’s north side that Pfarrer and several other WRM members frequented. A quick Google search revealed that Express Truck Delivery closed their business office at 1900, which left Bradshaw to choose between Pfarrer’s home and Joe’s Bar. He doubted the Russian would be at the home, which left Joe’s.

  Joe’s was perfectly situated for surveillance. Directly across the street was the Victory Assembly of God Church, which possessed a considerable parking lot. Bradshaw had ”borrowed” a surveillance car from FGPS, as he did not want his personal vehicle to be observed anywhere near the WRM’s points of interest.

  When he parked on the church’s property, he found a spot that allowed him to sit in the backseat and have a clear view of Joe’s parking lot. The first thing he did once he was positioned in the backseat of the company sedan was photograph the cars present in the lot. One of them possessed license plates that matched what the report had on file for Pfarrer. Bradshaw did not skip a single car, as he intended to run every plate and see if one would develop into a lead.

  The surveillance dragged on, but Bradshaw was accustomed to long stretches of little or no activity. After he photographed the cars, Bradshaw chewed on a couple of pieces of Oberto beef jerky, washed it down with the remainder of a bottle of Dasani, then slipped a Marlboro Snus into his lower lip. The nicotine rush kept him focused as he watched the bar’s front door. Every so often, Bradshaw would spit into the empty Dasani bottle. When his eyes tired, he would attempt to memorize the plates in the parking lot, a mental game designed to keep him awake and alert.

  It wasn’t until the third hour of surveillance that Bradshaw witnessed some action. He lifted his Canon Rebel T3i and focused. The first man through the front door looked familiar, but was not Pfarrer or the Russian. Bradshaw got several shots of him, then shifted to the second man in the line. He was also passingly familiar, but definitely was not either of the primary subjects.

  Pfarrer and the Russian walked out together, deeply engaged in conversation. Bradshaw’s finger and thumb worked furiously as he snapped photo after photo, following each of them to their cars. For a moment, Bradshaw wished he had brought a rifle with him. He could have easily killed the Russian, put down his white nationalist flunkies, and evaded the scene before the authorities arrived.

  Patience, Bradshaw chastised himself. Do this the right way. Get the evidence you need and let law enforcement do their job.

  Once the Russian climbed inside what was presumably his pick-up, Bradshaw drove the camera to the opposite side of the lot, just in time to see a scrawny, straw-haired man climb enter a lifted truck. He caught that on camera, too, matching a face to a vehicle. Bradshaw tried to find the last man, but he had already pulled out of the lot and was headed north on Gold Avenue. Bradshaw turned back to the Russian and snapped a photo of his truck headed west on Ruthrauff, towards the highway.

  “Hmm,” Bradshaw said to himself. Doubtful that the first two are unconnected. He let out a sigh as he turned off the camera, put it back in its bag, and climbed out of the backseat. Bradshaw would run surveillance detection routes on the way back to FGPS to ensure that he hadn’t been followed, then return the company car and drive back to his apartment. Another long night lay ahead.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tucson, Arizona

  23 August 2018

  07:00 hours Tango (14:00 hours Zulu)

  Bradshaw rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he pulled the company car in front of Rivera’s house. He reached for the large McDonald’s coffee he had been working on the entire drive and downed the remainder. It was the fourth cup of coffee he’d had that morning. Bradshaw hoped that the caffeine, the shower, and the pressed back-up suit would conceal that he was operating on just under three hours of sleep.

  Dominguez would have Bradshaw’s ass in a sling if he found out the lead EP agent for a high-dollar contract was operating sleep-deprived voluntarily. The entire purpose of the uniformed guards at the office and the residence was so Bradshaw had time to recharge. Bradshaw wasn’t sure which would be worse: Dominguez learning that he was running on fumes, or discovering the reason behind the fatigue. An off-the-books investigation could be cause for DPS to strip him of his license and penalize the company.

  Just means I can’t get caught, Bradshaw told himself as he stepped out of the car. He took the long way to the front door, dumping the coffee cup in the large, dark green trash bin on his way there. When he arrived, the posted guard nodded and opened the door for Bradshaw.

  “Ms. Rivera?” Bradshaw called as he stepped inside and removed his sunglasses. “You ready to go?”

  Rivera emerged from the kitchen, wearing a white button-down blouse tucked into pinstripe trousers, as well as a comfortable pair of flats. Her hair was immaculately coiffed and her makeup was minimal. She started to smile before she met Bradshaw’s eyes. Her face fell as she sighed.

  “You okay, Jack?”

  Bradshaw looked himself over. He couldn’t find any lint, hairs, or stains on his gray suit. He lifted his navy blue tie to inspect it. “I think so,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s not your clothing,” Rivera said. “Though, black’s definitely a better color for you.” She shook her head. “No, you look like shit in general. How’d you sleep?”

  Bradshaw rolled his lips under his teeth and popped them back out. His hands went to his hips. “That obvious?”

  Rivera folded her arms and arched her eyebrows. “Yep. Who’s the lucky girl?”

  Bradshaw laughed. “A mound of paperwork. Nothing extracurricular.”

  “Should be careful with that. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

  “I don’t think I have any room for another lady in my life right now.”

  Rivera smirked. “Good. Thought I was gonna have to take a bitch to court and sue for access.” When she saw Bradshaw shift uncomfortably, she laughed, finished her coffee, then set her cup down. “Relax, Jack. Just a joke. Lighten up. You’ll live longer.”

  Bradshaw opened his mouth, then caught himself. “You’ve got it.”

  Rivera adopted a faux scowl. “You were going to call me ‘ma’am’ again.”

  Bradshaw held his palms up in surrender. “Automatic reaction. Coffee’s still kicking in.”

  “I’ll get you a cup at the office,” Rivera said. She scooped her blazer off the back of a dining room chair, slung it over her shoulder, and gave Bradshaw a light, backhanded slap to his stomach. “Let’s roll, cowboy.”

  Bradshaw started to smile, but stopped himself as he shifted into his game face. Cool it, Kevin Costner. You’re already playing with fire. You’ve got bigger problems to deal with. With a forced exhale, Bradshaw slipped his shades back onto his face and made for the door.

  * * *

  Bradshaw pulled the black Crown Vic into the FGPS lot, eased it into a parking spot, and killed the ignition. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head briskly, and reached up to loosen his tie. Part of him wondered if maintaining daily surveillance was worth it if he was already operating at less than full capacity on day one. Bradshaw looked at the rearview mirror and studied himself.

  No, he decided. Just an off-day. Stayed up too late reading those reports. Now that’s done, should be a bit smoother sailing from here.

  Bradshaw made sure he left no trash or personal items in the car and then locked it behind him. He jogged up the stairs, stepped into the operations office, and made his way into the dispatch office, where company vehicle keys were kept. As he walked in, he found Miguel Dominguez standing over one of the dispatchers, his arms crossed and his sleeves rolled up.

  “What’s up, sir?” Bradshaw asked as he stepped inside.

  “Posted officer interrupted a B&E in progress,” Dominguez said. “He’s got the guy detained. Just waiting for Oro Valley PD to get out there.”

  “Shouldn’t take long,” Bradshaw said as he opened the key box and depo
sited the keys inside. “Not like business is super busy for them.”

  “True,” Dominguez said. “Just waiting to hear from a supervisor to get eyes on our guy.”

  “Who’d you send, sir?”

  “Turner.”

  Bradshaw recalled Turner, a 30-year retired Navy submariner who picked up a security job to pad his pension. He was one of the beat sergeants for FGPS’s uniformed division. “Should be okay, then.”

  “Yeah,” Dominguez said. As Bradshaw walked across the room to find the vehicle mileage and fuel log, Dominguez asked, “How’s the Rivera detail going?”

  “Fine, sir,” Bradshaw said simply.

  “Saw the posted officer’s ClientVision entry,” Dominguez said. “What’d she want to talk with you about?”

  “Wanted to vent about Florence,” Bradshaw said. “I guess it shook her up pretty good.”

  “Yeah.” Dominguez exhaled audibly. “I suppose it would.”

  “It’s turned her into a model principal, though. Not that she wasn’t before, but now she knows we’re not fucking around when it comes to work.”

  “I see,” Dominguez said.

  The dispatcher—a 20-something Latina—looked up at Dominguez. “Turner is on-site, sir.”

  “Good,” Dominguez said. “Keep me apprised.”

  Bradshaw finished up with his fuel log, put it back on the appropriate shelf, and walked back to Dominguez. “Need anything else from me, sir?”

  “Nope,” Dominguez said. “See you tomorrow.”