Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  Bradshaw said nothing as Rivera continued her rant. She noticed his silence and glared at him. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “No, ma’am,” Bradshaw said evenly.

  “You think this is right?”

  “I think it’s not my place to comment—”

  “Oh, bullshit, Jack!” she shouted.

  Bradshaw took a deep breath. “Ma’am, while yelling at me may help you feel better, it does nothing to help your client or to help me do my job.”

  “I saw you with that ICE agent,” Rivera said, her words dripping with venom. “Saw how chummy you are. You two having a laugh about kicking another brown person over the wall?”

  Bradshaw took a deep breath. “I served with him, ma’am.”

  “Oh, that’s just great,” Rivera said. “Another warrior cop. Guess he should consider himself lucky that he was just arrested and deported rather than gunned down in the street.”

  Bradshaw gripped the steering wheel tighter as he fought to control himself. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t give a damn about her client’s circumstances, that the law was the law, and at the end of the day, the facts were that her client was in violation. At the same time, he knew to do so would not only fuel Rivera’s fire, it was a fair bet that it would result in a write-up, possibly a suspension.

  “Ma’am,” Bradshaw said slowly, “perhaps you’d be better served by another EP agent. It’s clear that you and I are incompatible. I’ll put in a transfer request after business hours.”

  Rivera looked out the window and shook her head. “No, Jack,” she said.

  He checked the rearview mirror. “Ma’am?”

  “I don’t want you to transfer.” She rubbed her temples and pushed an exhale past her lips. “You’re not the issue here.”

  No, I’m not, Bradshaw thought. You are, with your fucking open borders nonsense. He took a deep breath and said, “Then ma’am, I would appreciate it if you didn’t denigrate my military service or that of my friend.” He paused a beat. “For the record, my friend? He’s HSI, not ERO. Not his job to round up undocumented aliens. He took the escort duty as overtime.”

  Rivera pushed a long exhale past her lips. “Let’s just get back to the office. I’ll order lunch. We can dial the tension back a few notches, I’ll get to work on helping Ernesto, and I’ll stay out of your hair.”

  Bradshaw nodded as he said coldly, “With pleasure, ma’am.”

  “First Guard Protective offers a wide variety of services to fit your security needs,” Miguel Dominguez said. He sat up straight, his fingers interlaced and rested on the desk. It was what he called his “customer service” pose. Selling the public was the one part of the job Dominguez was not equipped to tackle when he was hired as the operations manager, but he had mastered the art. The goal was to put enough fear into the customer to get them to buy, but not enough that they crawled under a rock and wept.

  “What kind of services?” the potential client asked.

  “In our uniformed division, we offer both armed and unarmed courtesy patrols, for however long you want our officers on your property,” Dominguez said. “They can patrol an entire residential complex, or they can stand post near major hot spots.” He picked up a company-issue Blackberry. “And with the state-of-the-art ClientVision, you’ll get reports on the areas our officer patrolled, photographs, audio recordings, and a complete shift log.”

  “Very interesting,” the client said. “Do all of your officers carry this ClientVision?”

  “It is a standard issue piece of our uniformed division’s equipment, Mr. Evans,” Dominguez said.

  Kazimir Merkolov nodded thoughtfully. He wore the same suit and rectangular glasses he had worn to the meeting with Gradenko, though he did not rely solely on that bit of subterfuge. Merkolov worked under the assumption that any security company worth their salt would have surveillance installed at their headquarters. He had donned a bond human-hair wig, styled it with hair gel into a part, and then applied a matching false circle beard and eyebrows. The finishing touch had been green-pupiled cosmetic contact lenses. A few passport photos and a couple of hours spent creating false documents on the fly, and Merkolov had created the legend of Albert Evans, snowbird and shadow partner in a South Dakota-based oil business.

  Merkolov was confident he could have walked past Bradshaw and the American wouldn’t have a clue that he was present, but he also was not one to run unnecessary risks. Merkolov timed his tour of Bradshaw’s employer for when he knew Bradshaw would be far away from the office.

  “You mentioned a uniformed division,” Merkolov said. “Is there a non-uniformed division?”

  “Yes, there is,” Dominguez said.

  “I’d love to hear more about that,” Merkolov said. “But before we continue…is there any chance we could have this conversation outside?” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced the pack of Marlboros. “Filthy habit, I know.”

  Dominguez waved Merkolov’s admission off. “Hey, I used to be a pack-a-day man. The wife basically kicked my ass and forced me to stop. Haven’t touched a cigarette in eight years, quit cold turkey.”

  Merkolov smiled. “Your wife sounds like a very tough and loving woman.”

  Dominguez chortled. “You don’t know the half of it, sir. C’mon. Let’s get outside. I could use the fresh air.”

  Dominguez led the way to the parking lot, Merkolov in tow. When they arrived, Merkolov eyed his target nonchalantly. He drifted towards the vehicle, with Dominguez keeping his back turned. When Merkolov was on-line with the vehicle, he slipped his left hand in his pant pocket while the right removed a non-descript Zippo that Merkolov had bought in a local smoke shop that morning. He let the Zippo fall from his hand and land just beneath the vehicle’s bumper.

  “Aw, shit,” Merkolov said, prompting Dominguez to turn around. “I’m a klutz.”

  “We all get a case of the butterfingers,” Dominguez said with a smile.

  Merkolov removed his left hand from his pocket and slipped it beneath the car, making a show of looking for his lighter. He coughed as he affixed the Spark Nano Micro GPS tracker to the vehicle’s underbelly. It had cost him $80, and he had overnighted it from Phoenix via Amazon Prime. The battery could last up to 10 days and was only activated when the vehicle was in motion. All Merkolov had to do was replace it every week, and once he had a firm location on Jack Bradshaw’s residence, that would prove to be no obstacle.

  “Ahh,” Merkolov said as he grabbed the Zippo. “Got it.” He stood back up and displayed the Zippo in faux-triumph, earning a polite smile from Dominguez. Merkolov plucked a cigarette from the pack, stuck it between his lips, and touched the flame to the tip. He inhaled deeply, then sighed with satisfaction as he blew the smoke skyward.

  “Better?” Dominguez asked pleasantly.

  “Absolutely,” Merkolov said. “You were saying about the non-uniformed officers?”

  “Yeah,” Dominguez said. “So, that breaks down into two primary functions: system installation and private investigations. The plainclothes guys are usually uniformed officers who have proven themselves to be a cut above the rest, and usually bring some sort of military or law enforcement background to the table. We train them on how to install security systems and surveillance cameras, and they also get their private investigator’s license.”

  “Is that a big industry in Tucson?”

  “It’s a big industry across the state,” Dominguez said. “Private investigation is hardly a Mickey Spillane novel. It’s really quite boring, and most of it revolves around a jealous spouse. With Arizona’s divorce rate about 15% above the national average, business is booming.”

  “It doesn’t seem like a boring industry,” Merkolov said. “I’ve heard whispers that it was First Guard that saved Gabriela Rivera from white supremacist vermin.”

  Dominguez shifted uncomfortably. “We’re not allowed to comment on active contracts without the consent of the client, I’m afraid.”

  Merko
lov nodded and switched tracks to keep the conversation interesting. “There’s also that one fellow out in Dallas, has a habit of carving notches in his gun.”

  Dominguez’s face darkened. “Ah. You’re talking about Jeb Shaw. Not a popular topic in this industry.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m sure the rank and file love reading his stories. Tales of gunfights and fist fights rarely fail to entertain.” Dominguez paused a beat. “To management, he’s a walking lawsuit waiting to happen. Glad he’s out in Texas and far the hell away from here, if I’m speaking frankly. Private investigators pride themselves on their discretion, whereas Mr. Shaw prides himself on his ability to…break things.”

  “I apologize for the faux pas,” Merkolov said as he pulled on the cigarette.

  “Not at all, Mr. Evans,” Dominguez said. “Just don’t want you to think we’re a bunch of literal hired guns.”

  Merkolov nodded as Dominguez began an in-depth explanation of private investigatory work. He would tolerate the salesman’s explanation and ask for a brochure before the man drifted into war stories, as retired soldiers and police officers were wont to do. Once Merkolov received that brochure, it would be back to his apartment to burn the wigs, contact lenses, and false documentation. He’d also destroy the SIM card inside the burner phone, which was linked to the Evans identity. From there, it’d be back to Joe’s, where Merkolov could monitor Bradshaw from the comfort of his smartphone.

  Stay in character, ‘Albert,’ Merkolov reminded himself as he took another drag off of the cigarette. The hard part’s done, but you’re not out of the woods yet.

  The remainder of Friday’s shift remained tense, with Rivera actively avoiding eye contact with Bradshaw. Outside of the necessary, she refused to communicate with him, and he was fine with that.

  The incident in the car was a reminder to Bradshaw to keep up his guard. He had gotten too comfortable around Rivera, and had almost allowed a lapse in professionalism. Any further lapses, and Bradshaw would have to recuse himself from the detail. That was unacceptable for two reasons: being Rivera’s EP agent put him in prime position if the White Resistance Movement took another shot at her, and the set hours allowed him to pursue his own investigation.

  On his way home, Bradshaw grabbed an Eegee’s Original Grinder and a couple cups of ghost pepper ranch. Upon reaching his apartment, he set about doing his homework in the living room. As a licensed private investigator, he had access to databases that were either flat-out unavailable to the general public or cost a high premium for unlicensed individuals to use. First Guard Protective Services had accounts on TransUnion TLOxp, IRBSearch, and Tracers Info, and when Bradshaw had earned his license, the company had set him up with login privileges.

  After the incident on Thursday evening, Bradshaw had opted for sleep. He had not touched the information he had collected during Wednesday night’s recce. The Acer laptop was booted up, and Bradshaw logged into FGPS’s internal website, where he could run searches and cross-reference databases in real time. The first order of business was to run the plates. Bradshaw ran the Russian’s plate first and saw that the pickup truck came back registered to a “Mark Gerald” on TLOxp. When Bradshaw ran Gerald through the databases, he noted a seemingly valid birth certificate, but none of his credit or employment histories appeared on the records until six months prior.

  “Sloppy,” Bradshaw said aloud as he jotted all the information down. In his mind, that all but confirmed that “Mark Gerald” was a Russian operative. An American-born asset would have an employment history that started somewhere between 18 and 22, and a credit history soon thereafter. His history starting in February told Bradshaw that was when the Russian infiltrated the United States and began operating under his cover.

  Says he’s got a Ford F350, Bradshaw mused, remembering the truck the Russian entered at Joe’s. I was being tailed by a sedan. Either the Russian’s got a surveillance car, or he’s got others to run his surveillance. Both seem equally plausible. He made a note to dig deeper into “Gerald” for further discrepancies.

  Bradshaw skipped over Pfarrer for the moment, as the file dump that Dalton had provided was more than comprehensive for a starting point. Chances were that Pfarrer had not changed much since the investigation ended. As a man innocent in the law’s eyes, there was no reason for him to alter his personal information or go off the grid.

  That left only one plate that Bradshaw could positively link to a person. A beat-up 2004 Chevy Silverado belonged to Ricky Dee Peters. Michigan-born to a Kentucky-native mother and an unknown father, Peters moved to Arizona as a teenager when his mother remarried. Peters did a long stint as an assistant supervisor at a McDonalds before he got picked up by Pfarrer’s Express Truck Delivery Services. Peters had a couple of misdemeanor assaults, a public intoxication charge, and a few speeding tickets, but nothing felonious.

  Bradshaw pulled up the ICE file dump and cross-referenced what he learned from TLOxp. Peters had been under active surveillance as a member of both the Minutemen and the White Resistance Movement. There was nothing felonious that he could prove, but that just meant that Peters was good at covering his tracks.

  On a hunch, Bradshaw launched a virtual private network on his computer, then pulled up Facebook. While he did not have a personal account, Bradshaw did maintain a burner account under an alias for social media data mining purposes. The account was under the name Brandon Schofield, the protagonist of Robert Ludlum’s Matarese duology and one of Bradshaw’s favorite literary characters. The profile sported a photo of Jeff Bridges with a beard and a shaved head, which was how Bradshaw envisioned the character.

  Bradshaw immediately went to the search bar and typed in “Ricky Peters.” Various results popped up, but none that matched the description. He altered the search to “Ricky Dee Peters.” That yielded even fewer results. Bradshaw dipped his Eegee’s sandwich into the ghost pepper ranch and took a bite as he used his free hand to delete “Peters” from the search, leaving only “Rickey Dee.”

  Got you. The third result down had a thumbnail of Peters smiling and holding up a fish that he’d caught. Bradshaw clicked on the profile and was greeted by a cover photo that bore a white lion seated on a rock, along with the Celtic cross. Peters listed his job description as “Persecuted at United States of ZOG” and his politics as “white nationalist.” Bradshaw scrolled Peters’s likes and immediately found InfoWars, Prison Planet, a slew of white pride and white nationalism pages, and a few pages that supported the current President.

  When Bradshaw returned to Peters’s main page, the first image he found—posted a week earlier—was an illustration of a Spartan man using a shield to protect himself from a swarm of incoming arrows, with the caption, “Being a straight white man in 2018.”

  Bradshaw screen-captured everything he found and saved it to a folder on his computer that bore Peters’s name. Where Pfarrer and “Gerald” did not maintain social media accounts, Peters was not only actively on social media, he was not shy about his beliefs.

  Guess that makes him the weak link, Bradshaw said as he chewed his sandwich. He’s the next target. He finished the sub, wadded up the wrapping, and tossed it away. With his hunger sated, Bradshaw delved deeper into the Ricky Peters rabbit hole. Once he developed an online pattern of life across various social media, the next step would be a physical pattern of life.

  And then what? Bradshaw asked himself. You can’t arrest him. You can’t throw him in a holding tank and scare him. That train of thought led to the uncomfortable question he had been avoiding from the onset.

  Just how far are you willing to go, Jack?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tucson, Arizona

  26 August 2018

  19:22 hours Tango (27 August 02:22 hours Zulu)

  Bradshaw had been following Peters for the majority of the past two days, only sleeping when he was sure Peters had turned in for the night. He felt disgusting, having missed the gym on both days, but that could not be helped. Wi
thout a surveillance team to split the work, Bradshaw had to be on-duty 24/7.

  A logistics run early Saturday morning had preempted the initiation of surveillance. Bradshaw had gone shopping for two items. The first stop was at Walmart by Speedway and Kolb, where he bought a Straight Talk Alcatel idealXCITE smartphone and pre-paid $100 worth of data and minutes. The clerk had tried hard to upsell on the iPhone, but Bradshaw refused, knowing he could not remove the battery at will. He needed the phone for a phase of his surveillance later on, but before then, he did not want to carry a mobile tracking device that could be switched on remotely by a third party.

  The next stop was to close the deal on a tool he had been pursuing since his close call on Thursday. Bradshaw had no option except to assume that his personal vehicle had been burned, and it was only a matter of time before somebody at FGPS noticed his use of the company fleet for personal business. He had taken to Craigslist, where he went in search of an automobile.

  It hadn’t taken him long. A seller on the south side was looking to offload a silver 2003 Honda Odyssey for $1,800. Bradshaw met with them and ran the vehicle through the paces. The AC needed repairing, and it was well past its service life at 180,000 miles. Still, it ran from point A to point B, and it passed the critical portions of the preventive maintenance checks and services Bradshaw had conducted. He managed to talk the owner down to $1,600, and exchanged the title for cash that day. As soon as the van was fueled up and equipped with snacks and water, Bradshaw had initiated his surveillance.

  As it turned out, Peters had the day off Saturday and woke up late. Bradshaw arrived on site at the edifice off of Columbus and Glenn just as Peters stepped out to his Silverado and hopped inside. He gave Peters a short head start before following. Thankfully, the Silverado stood out, and Bradshaw had no problem keeping up.