Peters’s Saturday had been slow. A couple of hours at the gym, back home for most of the day, then to Joe’s for some booze and presumably white nationalist chest-thumping. Peters departed Joe’s just after 02:00, and Bradshaw only followed as far to confirm that Peters was headed home. Around 04:30, Bradshaw made his way to Peters’s house, confirmed the Silverado was there, and then quietly made his way to the driveway on foot. Fifteen seconds later, the Spark Nano Micro GPS tracker was emplaced on the truck.
Once he returned to the Honda, Bradshaw installed the battery on his Alcatel smartphone, downloaded the Spark app, then logged in and ensured the tracker was active. He then drove home to shower, change, and grab some essentials before returning to Peters’s home.
Sunday had started out even slower. At least Saturday bore the excitement of surveillance driving, being on edge out of fear of compromise. Modern technology removed the majority of that thrill, allowing reconnaissance from a distance. Peters was not up until noon. He went to the gym, came home, emerged showered and changed, and hit up an IHOP near Grant and Craycroft for breakfast. Then, it was back to his house for a few hours.
While Peters was inside, Bradshaw logged onto the burner Facebook account and stalked him. It was an active news day. The state’s senior US Senator had succumbed to glioblastoma, and Peters had made sure to repeatedly post a debunked theory that the Senator—a Vietnam-era Naval aviator—had broken under torture and served up his compatriots in exchange for preferential treatment during his five years in enemy captivity. That alone tempted Bradshaw to kick in the door and beat the brakes off of Peters. While Bradshaw had certainly not agreed with the Senator on many things policy-wise, he had nothing but respect for the fallen statesman and fellow veteran.
Peters also posted a bit on the investigation into Russian interference, calling it a “witch hunt instigated by the Jews and mud people within the Deep State to demonize a nation proud of its ethnic European origins, and to demean and smear an American President who is unapologetically white and proud.”
The final thread that Peters started revolved around the murder of an Iowan girl by an undocumented alien. Peters took that as an opportunity to opine on “white genocide,” and it somehow redirected to a dispute regarding white farmers in South Africa being made by the government to hand their lands over to indigenous farmers. After the seventh use of the term “wetback” and the fourth of “nigger,” Bradshaw elected to kill the Facebook app and power down the phone before he decided to follow through on the temptation for direct action.
“You know, Ricky,” he said aloud in the Honda Odyssey’s solitude, “it’s fucksticks like you that give the SJWs free ammunition. Jesus fucking Christ, guy.”
Around 16:30, Peters made for his vehicle. He was dressed in a black T-shirt, jeans, and black combat boots, complete with wallet chain and an Iron Cross buckle for his leather belt. That surprised Bradshaw. Peters’s neighborhood was one of the rougher areas, with a high concentration of blacks and Latinos. Openly sporting neo-fascist attire wasn’t the best OPSEC approach, but then again, the man had no qualms about broadcasting his views on social media.
Then again, Bradshaw had noted that Peters’s noise levels at home were minimal, and he hadn’t hosted any visitors over the past two days. Less than 48 hours was hardly enough to tout as a verified pattern of life, but it did give Bradshaw the indication that Peters only used the house to lounge about, eat, and sleep.
Bradshaw watched Peters pull away, then reassembled the Alcatel phone and booted it up. A minute later, the Spark app was open, and Bradshaw saw Peters had charted a course towards Joe’s. Bradshaw made for the highway. Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the Victory Assembly of God parking lot and sat tight.
The waiting period was minimal. Within 30 minutes, Peters emerged with two friends of his whom Bradshaw had not encountered previously. One was a tall fellow with a prominent beer gut, while the other was non-descript and pimply-faced. Both wore combat boots and jeans, and had a look in their eye that made Bradshaw’s hackles stand up on end.
“Whatcha planning, Ricky?” Bradshaw said as he reached for his camera. Before he could get it out, Peters and his compatriots—whom Bradshaw had nicknamed Doofus and Needle-Dick—climbed into Peters’s Silverado and pulled out of the parking lot.
That doesn’t make sense, Bradshaw mused. If they were going to drink at Peters’s pad, they could have just met him there. Why drive all the way across town just to drive back? Even free drinks would have been offset by the cost of gas at that distance. What are these clowns up to?
Bradshaw watched the Silverado disappear in the direction of the highway, then consulted the Spark app to confirm their route. The blip on the screen crossed the overpass, hooked a left, and entered I-10 East. He set the Alcatel down in the passenger’s seat, revved the engine, and followed their path. The Silverado appeared a way’s down the road, steadily trucking south. When they passed the Miracle Mile, Grant, and Speedway exits, Bradshaw knew that the trio weren’t on their way to Peters’s residence.
A glance at the smartphone revealed that the Silverado had taken the exit for I-19 South. That caused Bradshaw’s brow to crease. Why are they headed towards Nogales? Are they picking up a dope load? It was common for white supremacist gangs to work with Hispanic criminal organizations, especially in prison, but those gangs were more business-driven than ideological. Bradshaw had not heard of the purists allying themselves with Hispanic enterprises, but he also couldn’t discount the possibility.
Bradshaw checked his fuel gauge as he passed the Irvington exit. If they passed Valencia, he would need to stop and get gas for the drive to the border. He had enough for local commute, but to travel outside of the metro area was something for which he was not prepared. Bradshaw was grateful that Peters drove a gas-guzzling truck rather than a sedan. There was still a chance the Odyssey could catch up to them after a pit-stop.
A moment later, Bradshaw glanced at the Alcatel and saw that Peters and company had pulled off on Valencia. He breathed a sigh of relief, but did not allow himself to fully relax. They had entered what was effectively Tucson’s Little Mexico. With three neo-fascists romping about a heavily Hispanic-populated area, Bradshaw failed to imagine any positive outcomes.
The Silverado hooked a left to head eastbound on Valencia. A few moments later, Bradshaw did likewise, maintaining his distance. He picked up the smartphone and alternated between watching the road and monitoring the screen. The blip reached the intersection of Valencia and 6th, executed a U-turn, and pulled to a stop just beyond the intersection. Bradshaw set the phone down and scanned. His eyes fell on the Silverado, parked in an establishment beside the Circle K on the northwest corner. Bradshaw casually pulled into the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant across the street, brought the Honda to a halt, and reached into his kit bag for a monocular.
Once Bradshaw set his eye relief, he saw Peters, Needle-Dick, and Doofus dismount from the vehicle. All three sported flat black bandannas wrapped around their noses and wore ball caps low on their brows. He spotted brass knuckles on Doofus’s hand, as well as Peters wielding a leather sap. Bradshaw glanced at the establishment they were entering: México Lindo Food Market and Frutería.
Oh, shit. Bradshaw lowered the monocular and bared his teeth. “Fuck!”
He assessed his options. Calling the police would be the legal and most efficient way to handle the situation. The problem with that was that there were no truly anonymous calls to the police, and a few days later, detectives would be knocking on his door, asking how he was miraculously in position to observe and report. Additionally, there was the response time. Tucson Police did their best, but they were underfunded and undermanned. Best case scenario, it would take a few minutes for a black and white to swing by and investigate the complaint. By then, the WRMs—as Bradshaw had taken to calling them—would likely be long gone, their damage inflicted.
Bradshaw was suddenly cognizant of the Glock 19 beneath his T-shirt. T
he option was the most efficient, but that placed him in an even bigger jam than if he just called the police outright. If he stayed to give a statement, Bradshaw would effectively be admitting to vigilante action. If he killed the assailants and departed, he would be charged with manslaughter and fleeing the scene of a crime.
Okay, Bradshaw thought. Gunplay’s a last resort. Then what? His eyes drifted to the kit bag. It was a hodge-podge collection of surveillance and security equipment. A light bulb lit up in his mind as he dug inside and found the duty belt he’d worn while with the uniformed division. On it was a Smith & Wesson 18-inch collapsible baton. Bradshaw retrieved and inspected it as he weighed his options.
I didn’t see any guns, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. They pull out a gun, I either risk getting shot or I’ll have to put them down. But, if I roll up on them hard and fast, I might be able to take them out of commission before they have a chance to respond. Police won’t look too hard for somebody who flees the scene of an assault as long as I don’t kill any of them.
Bradshaw glanced across the street again, and his eyes fell on a surveillance camera on the adjacent Circle K. Fuck. What if they have cameras? He looked back to his kit bag. Inside were a plain black windbreaker, a pair of black puncture-proof gloves, a tan neck gaiter, and a foliage green fleece watch cap. As he pulled the attire out of the bag and donned it, Bradshaw let out a long exhale.
Well, guess we’re answering the question of how far we’re going. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!
With the jacket on, the watch cap low on his brow, the gaiter over his nose, and the gloves covering his hands, Bradshaw brought the Odyssey back to life. His hands flexed on the wheel as he sucked air in through his nose.
Last chance to back out, Jack.
Bradshaw glanced back over to México Lindo. He saw Doofus reach across the counter and pull a smaller gentleman across it, the brass-knuckled hand cocked back and poised to strike.
That settled the issue for Bradshaw. He shifted into reverse, peeled out of the parking lot, and raced for the intersection. Bradshaw flipped the Odyssey as hard as he could without risking rollover, drifted through the intersection, and raced forward when he righted the van. He pulled into the edge of the lot, wanting to keep out of range of any exterior surveillance cameras. Bradshaw threw the van in park, killed the ignition, and leapt out, baton in his right hand.
Robert Galvez trembled as he held his hands out in front of him. The stout, balding 54-year-old man had known violence his entire life through living in poverty. This was not the first time he had been held up, though it never got easier. The three white men before him had concealed their faces, but the hatred projected through their eyes was a clear indicator that their motives were not purely financial. That was added cause for fear.
“Please, sir,” he said meekly. “Take whatever you want. Just please don’t hurt me.”
The leader—one of the thinner ones—lashed out with the flat end of the blackjack, connecting with Galvez’s stomach. As Galvez doubled over, the leader said, “I told you to shut the fuck up, you fucking spic!”
Galvez clutched his midsection as he glanced to his left. The largest of the trio had relieved him of his register keys, and had opened the cash drawer. He plucked all the bills from within. Galvez’s heart sank, but he held his peace, hoping that either the three would just leave, or that the police had been called and would arrive shortly. Galvez’s daughter was in the stockroom, and would have hopefully caught the commotion on the cameras.
As the big thug stuffed his pockets with the store’s money, he said, “Not enough to recoup all the tax money we send to the beaners, but it’s a start.” He chuckled, amused at his own perceived glibness.
“That’s all I have,” Galvez said. “Please, just go. I won’t tell a soul that you were here.”
The giant man cocked his arm and lashed out with a vicious backhand that drew blood and sent spittle flying towards the nearby wall. “You need to watch your tone, wetback,” he said. “You don’t give us orders.”
“Yeah!” the third man piped in. “We’re taking our country back!”
The words left Galvez’s mouth before he could stop himself. “I was born in Tucson! I’ve lived here all my life! I’m an American citiz—”
The big man drove his boot into Galvez’s midsection and drove the wind from him. He boomed, “What part of ‘watch your tone’ do you not fucking understand, esé?” The behemoth added emphasis and derision to the last word.
Footsteps echoed from the aisle, and the leader turned to address it. Galvez heard the smack of a hand meeting flesh, followed by a distinctively feminine and pained gasp. He turned to find the leader standing over Zoë, his eldest daughter and the store’s closing manager.
“Ballsy,” the leader said. “Might make my dick hard if you weren’t a filthy spic.”
Galvez’s eyes bulged as he scrambled to his feet. “Leave my daughter alone!” he cried out. He caught a boot to his back that sent him stumbling towards his daughter.
“Dad!” Zoë cried out, crawling to her father and wrapping her arms around him.
“Aw,” the leader taunted. “How cute.”
Zoë scooped up and cradled her father, then glared at the leader with tears in her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you wetback cockroaches need a history lesson,” the leader seethed from beneath his bandanna. “You lost a war in 1848, and we had every right to take the land. Spoils of war. But no, we bought it from you ungrateful scum. How do you repay us? By infesting our nation, by spitting out litter after litter of wetback offspring, and doing your best to breed the white race out of existence.”
Zoë had learned enough in college to rebut each point of the leader’s screed. She also had the common sense to know that under threat of violence was no place for such a discussion. “Please,” she begged with as much humility as she could muster. “You’ve emptied our register. Could you just go?”
The leader stepped forward and squatted beside father and daughter, causing both to shy away. “Now you know how decent, upstanding white folk feel when we ask you to leave. Turnabout is fair play.”
Zoë did not know how to respond to that. She was immediately distracted by movement at the door. Another masked man, this one bearing a thin, rubber-wrapped metal cylinder, entered the store. At first, she thought the hoodlums had brought another friend, but that notion was quickly dispelled by the reaction of the thin third man, who stepped forward menacingly.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Bradshaw knew the frontal approach placed the attacker at a distinct handicap. It gave keen defenders an opportunity to repel the assault. If there were no innocent bystanders at risk, Bradshaw would have taken his time and scoped the premises for an alternate point of entry.
Then again, were there no bystanders, he would not attack at all.
Three elements were necessary for success against a numerically superior force: speed, surprise, and violence of action. Bradshaw’s surprise was compromised due to the circumstances, but a small window existed where that could be overcome if his speed and violence of action were sufficient.
When Needle-Dick stepped forward to challenge the unexpected entry, Bradshaw’s answer was a flick of his wrist to extend the Smith & Wesson baton to its full 18-inch length, then a harsh swing that connected with the side of Needle-Dick’s left knee. A muffled yet audible crack confirmed that the baton had done its job. Needle-Dick fell to the tile floor, a morbid squeal flying from his lips as he clutched his fractured patella and writhed on the ground.
To their credit, Doofus and Peters weren’t ones to gawk and stare. Doofus scrambled around the counter while Peters bolted forward, leather sap held high. Bradshaw waited until Peters was committed to the rush, then lashed out with a ferocious push kick to the chest. The force was enough to knock Peters backward and airborne simultaneously.
Doofus entered the fray. He threw a right haymaker that Bradshaw easily roll
ed beneath. The roll set Bradshaw up for a backhanded baton strike, which missed its mark and connected with Doofus’s thigh. Doofus replied with a wide left hook that clipped the side of Bradshaw’s head and left him seeing stars. Through the haze, Bradshaw managed to see Doofus’s right straight coming and slip it. As powerful as Doofus was bare-knuckled, a full-force punch with the brass knuckles would certainly mean a concussion, if not worse.
Bradshaw and Doofus circled each other as Peters continued to try and collect his breath. Doofus attempted a couple of feints in hopes of scaring Bradshaw one direction or the other. He jabbed hard with his left hand, and Bradshaw dodged the first couple. When Doofus stepped forward to jab again, Bradshaw stepped in and lowered his head. Doofus’s hand connected with the top of Bradshaw’s skull, and another loud crack filled the air as the metacarpal bones fractured.
As Doofus clutched his hand and snarled, Bradshaw shook his head briskly to clear it, then stepped forward, raised the baton over his head, and brought it crashing down on Doofus’s right shoulder. The shrill crack announced that Doofus’s scapula had been fractured, rendering him combat ineffective. Bradshaw shifted the baton to his left hand, which freed his right hand for a brutal uppercut that connected with Doofus’s chin. That turned off the lights, and Doofus collapsed to the floor in a heap.
The two workers stared at Bradshaw, mouths agape. He pointed the baton at them and barked, “Eyes on the floor!” They complied. He did not want them to get any more of a look at him than absolutely necessary. Once their gazes were averted, Bradshaw eyed the three WRMs that he had disabled, his mind racing to make a decision.
Shit. He took a deep breath, then dropped to a knee and collapsed the baton. When it was safely back in his pocket, Bradshaw marched over to Peters, grabbed him by the shoulders, and hefted him to his feet.
Fault Lines Page 19
