Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  “Wait, w-wait!” Peters stammered. “What are you gonna do to me?”

  Bradshaw backhanded Peters across the face. “Shut up,” he growled. With hands clamped on both shoulders, he added, “Move.”

  They left the store, stepping around Doofus’s and Needle-Dick’s forms. When they got to the Odyssey, Bradshaw grabbed Peters by the neck and pinned him face-first against the cab body.

  “You make a sound, and you’ll be in a wheelchair the rest of your life,” Bradshaw rasped. “Nod if you understand.” Once Peters frantically affirmed, Bradshaw used his free hand to pop open the passenger door, then conducted a quick pat search, recovering Peters’s wallet and cell phone.

  “Where are your keys?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Tim has ‘em!” Peters said. “The big guy!”

  Content with the answer, Bradshaw tossed Peters’s effects onto the Odyssey’s floorboard, then dug about in his kit bag. A moment later, he found the first item: his duty handcuffs. Bradshaw applied the restraints quickly, then added, “I didn’t double-lock them, so if you get squirrely, they’ll only get tighter.”

  “Whatcha gonna do to me?” Peters demanded again.

  That time, Bradshaw didn’t strike Peters in response. Instead, he dug into his kit bag once more and produced a half-expended roll of duct tape. He tore a strip and applied it to Peters’s forehead.

  “Were I you, I’d close my eyes,” Bradshaw said. A half-second later, he wrapped the roll around Peters’s eyes three times. Once that was done, he repeated the process over the mouth. When Bradshaw had fully gagged Peters, he tossed the duct tape back in the kit bag and pulled Peters close.

  “You lay on the floor and you don’t make a sound. You make any noise, attract any cops, first bullet goes through your head.”

  Bradshaw did not wait for affirmation. He opened the sliding door, tossed Peters inside, then slammed the door shut. Bradshaw glanced both ways, and his eyes fell on the Silverado.

  Shit. The tracker!

  Bradshaw sprinted to the back of the Silverado, dropped to his stomach, and reached up to where he’d placed the Spark GPS tracker. It detached from the truck in an instant, and Bradshaw quickly stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

  Sirens resounded in the distance, growing in crescendo. Taking the cue, Bradshaw bolted to the driver’s seat and climbed inside. The neck gaiter and watch cap were thrown in the kit bag before he slipped the keys in the ignition. A moment later, Bradshaw peeled out and made his way towards I-19 North.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Red Rock, Pinal County, Arizona

  26 August 2018

  21:20 hours Tango (27 August 04:20 hours Zulu)

  Bradshaw would have enjoyed the drive out of the city under other circumstances. The temperature had fallen into the high 70s, and there wasn’t a cloud in the airspace. Tucson’s light pollution statutes ensured that the stellar luminescence was unobstructed in the zaffre canvas. A full moon added to the brilliance. Mountains and buttes towered in the distance, with swaths of nocturnal light spilling onto the peaks. It was the sort of backdrop best accompanied by a group of friends or romantic companion, a campfire, some alcohol, and meandering conversation.

  Instead, Bradshaw had kept the Odyssey in the right lane and drove the speed limit, keeping his eyes open for sheriff’s deputies or highway patrolmen parked on the median. K-HIT 107.5 FM played softly in the background. It was the same ads that Bradshaw had heard ad nauseam. One had an authoritative, baritone voice that reminded listeners that he was a native Tucsonan, what his name was (twice), and that he was a lawyer on the listener’s side at any time. The next was the voice of Tucson’s menace of a used car salesman, a shrill-voiced reprobate that claimed to have universal lending power and to be a dealer for the people. After the station identification, the opening acoustic riff to The Eagles’ “Hotel California” filled the air.

  Bradshaw wasn’t listening to the words. His mind was too busy racing over the gravity of his actions at México Lindo. Extracting Peters had not been part of the plan, but an epiphany had struck him moments after he’d bested Doofus: Peters might have been dull enough to chalk it up to random intervention at first, but when he realized that Bradshaw had gone through lengths to conceal his identity, chances were that he would work out that he was being followed.

  When he committed to rendition, he still hadn’t formulated a solid plan. Bradshaw was a shooter and a recon man, not an interrogator. There had been a couple of instances with Ranger Recce where he’d slapped around lower-level guys to gain compliance and glean low-value intel, but that was the summation of his experience in information extraction. He had his specialization, and he was supported by others with different specializations, something he’d taken for granted while he was enlisted.

  In his introspection, realization struck Bradshaw and elicited a mirthless smirk. Extraction? Rendition? Sanitized terms. Let’s call it what it is, Jack: kidnapping.

  Bradshaw made it a point to know portions of Arizona Revised Statutes relevant to his private security duties, and would often peruse other sections out of boredom during particularly long surveillance jobs. Title 13, Chapter 13, Section 4 detailed kidnapping as a class 2 felony, second in severity only to murder. It carried a 12-year sentence if successfully prosecuted.

  He had heard the stories of the gladiator academies that were Arizona Department of Corrections facilities. He figured that his role against the White Resistance Movement wouldn’t endear him to the Aryan Brotherhood, who in turn would blacklist him with the Mexican Mafia. Other sets would want to kill or rape him simply because he was a white man. There was no doubt that if he were processed as an inmate, he would leave in a body bag, one way or another.

  Focus. Bradshaw took a deep breath in through his nose and pushed it past his lips. His fingers flexed on the wheel. If he allowed his mind to continue wandering, the worst-case scenario would come true through inattention to detail. Bradshaw needed to develop the situation and cover his tracks. The longer he drove with Peters bound and gagged in the back, the greater the chance of discovery.

  By the time Bradshaw cleared Marana, he had formed a loose plan. It would rely heavily on his having read Peters’s demeanor correctly. If the white supremacist was made of sterner stuff than Bradshaw assessed, then the plan would fall apart. He sucked another deep inhale through his nose and rehearsed various scenarios in his mind. By the time he pulled over to the side of the road outside of Red Rock, he was as ready as he would be.

  Once the Odyssey was parked, Bradshaw killed the ignition and lights. He grabbed a device from his kit bag, turned it on, and clipped it to his shirt. He then hopped out of the van and opened the backseat. Peters remained in a modified recovery position. His body trembled and his head traversed spastically in search of stimuli that would shed light on his predicament. That was a good sign. Bradshaw knew if he were in a similar position, he would have lashed out with a series of kicks the moment the door opened. He climbed inside, shut the door behind him, and positioned Peters in one of the seats. Bradshaw turned on one of the ceiling lights, squatted in front of Peters, and removed the tape from his eyes and mouth, taking with it a good amount of eyebrow and wispy facial hair.

  It took a moment for Peters’s eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw Bradshaw’s face, and his mouth immediately locked open.

  “You’re gonna kill me.” It wasn’t a question.

  “What makes you say that?” Bradshaw asked.

  “You let me see your face,” Peters said. “You’d only do that if you planned to kill me.”

  Bradshaw shrugged. “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “How cooperative you are.” Bradshaw rubbed his palms together. “You prove to be an asset, you get to keep on living. Maybe when this is all said and done, you get a second chance to reconsider the poor decisions that led you to this moment.”

  Peters swallowed what little saliva remained in his mouth. “And if I don’t?”

  �
��Then I’m already on the hook for kidnapping, aggravated assault, and fleeing a crime scene. I’m already going to do 20 years. Might as well give myself a running head start and remove any witnesses.”

  Peters shook his head. “I don’t know what you want with me. I ain’t dealing dope. I ain’t rich.”

  “You’ve got something more valuable than money,” Bradshaw said. “Information.”

  Peters straightened up and jutted his jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Bradshaw paused a beat to let Peters’s mind wander. “You are going to tell me everything about the White Resistance Movement.”

  Peters’s eyes flared. “Fuck you, race traitor.”

  He never saw Bradshaw’s backhand coming. His cheek reddened, and his breathing grew shallow as he processed the pain. Bradshaw continued to stare at him dispassionately.

  “Everything that you know about the White Resistance Movement.”

  Peters slowly resumed his power stance. His eyes narrowed. “I’d rather die than betray my cause.”

  Bradshaw slapped Peters harder. “That’s a distinct possibility, the way you’re going.” His tone remained impassive, despite the violent display.

  “I’ve got no love for spic and nigger lovers,” Peters said through clenched teeth. He smiled and gestured towards Bradshaw. “You hit like a faggot, Freddie Mercury.”

  Bradshaw nodded, then reached into his pocket. His thumb extended the blade on his folding blued steel folding knife. His eyes studied the blade and turned it over both ways. Bradshaw waited for Peters’s entire attention to be focused on the knife before he spoke.

  “Cold Steel makes some damn fine knives. This one’s the Recon folder. It’s got a Tanto blade.” He pointed to the tip. “It’s a broad, sharp tip that’s designed for one purpose: creating a massive wound channel.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “In layman’s terms, it’s specifically for stabbing people. I call it a ‘get off me’ knife, in case I can’t get to my gun and an assailant’s on top of me. Grab it from my pocket, extend it, and stab until I achieve the desired effect.”

  Without warning, Bradshaw placed the blade to Peters’s throat while his left hand worked to undo Peters’s belt and fly. Once that was done, he yanked the jeans and off-color white briefs down around Peters’s ankles. Peters pinched his thighs together in an attempt to conceal his genitalia.

  “You said you’d rather die,” Bradshaw said. “I told you that you’d die if you didn’t talk. I never said how quick the process would be.” His eyes fell to where Peters’s legs met his hips. “I wonder how long it would take you to hemorrhage if I stuck you in the nuts?” Bradshaw looked into Peters’s eyes with a sinister gleam. “Let’s find out.”

  Peters thrashed violently. “Fuck you—”

  Bradshaw drove a hard fist into Peters’s diaphragm. His free hand wrapped around Peters’s throat as he used his knees on the inside of the white nationalist’s thighs to pry his legs open. Bradshaw glanced where the legs joined at the hips and snorted.

  “I see why you’ve got such a hard on for black folk,” Bradshaw taunted. “Ain’t much there for stabbing.”

  Peters fell silent, his eyes fixed on the blade. Bradshaw reached between Peters’s legs with the Cold Steel folder, found a loose flap of scrotal skin, and pressed the blade’s tip into it, just enough for him to feel it but not enough to break skin. Their eyes met, and a cold smile crossed Bradshaw’s lips.

  “I wouldn’t move too much if I were you.”

  Peters’s lips trembled, but he took a deep breath and spoke with more confidence than he felt. “Go ahead. You won’t learn anything. I’ll bleed out.”

  “No, you won’t,” Bradshaw said. “I’ve got an IFAK in my kit bag.”

  Peters’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Huh?”

  Bradshaw smirked. “Sorry, old habit. I’ve got a first aid kit up front. Got a pouch of QuikClot powder. You ever heard of it?” When Peters failed to respond, Bradshaw gave him a short chuckle. “Of course you haven’t. I guess you were more worried about looking tacticool during your Minuteman patrols than you were about actual fieldcraft.” He took a deep breath and commenced to lecture in an academic tone. “QuikClot is a hemostatic agent designed to stem hemorrhage. Basically, that means if you’re in danger of bleeding out, it’ll stop the bleeding long enough for me to get you to urgent care.

  “The thing is,” Bradshaw continued, “the first-generation stuff was real messy. It was a granule powder, and the biggest complaint was that it caused an intense burning sensation inside of the wound.” He paused and shrugged. “I knew a guy once, poured the old school QuikClot into a shrapnel wound he received from an IED. Said it felt like somebody stuck a fire poker in magma then shoved it in his leg.

  “The newer generations of QuikClot transitioned from granules to gauze and eliminated the burning sensation. Unfortunately for you, all I’ve got in my bag is the first-gen stuff.” Bradshaw watched Peters’s laryngeal prominence migrate slowly as nervousness crept into his eyes.

  “What are you saying?” Peters asked quietly.

  “I’m saying that when I administer this backroom sex change, you’re not gonna die. I’m gonna pour an entire pack of QuikClot into what used to be your cock and balls, and then I’m gonna wrap it tight with an Israeli bandage. Then, I’m gonna see what other appendages we can hack off. If shock kicks in, I’ve got smelling salts and epinephrine.” The cold smile returned to Bradshaw’s face. “You’re gonna be my anatomical guinea pig. I’ll keep you alive long enough to make you beg for a bullet, but I won’t waste one on you. You’re gonna feel every second of your death. The challenge will be how long I can keep you alive before your body gives out, even with chemical assistance.”

  Peters’s lips were pressed tightly shut. His breathing had grown labored. His eyes remained locked on Bradshaw’s.

  Bradshaw applied a little more pressure to the knife, eliciting a pained gasp from Peters. “You ever seen a testicle outside of the scrotal sack? I have. It ain’t pretty. Kinda purplish-gray. I’ll show you yours before I shove them down your throat.”

  Peters couldn’t take it any longer. “Stop!”

  Bradshaw eased off, but kept the blade in place. “Do you have something to say to me, Ricky?”

  “I’ll tell you what you want,” Peters breathed. “Just get that fucking knife away from my balls, man!”

  Bradshaw flicked the knife closed and set it on his lap. He left Peters’s pants around his ankles as both an emasculation tactic, and a reminder that the blade could reenter play at any time. “I’m listening.”

  “What do you wanna know, man?”

  “The hit at the rally in Florence. Who’s the brains?” As Peters opened his mouth to speak, Bradshaw held up the retracted knife. “Fair warning: I probably know more than you think. I catch you in a lie, we’re gonna have fun with the QuikClot.”

  Peters nodded slowly and took a deep breath. “Bill Pfarrer calls the shots. He’s the brains of the outfit. The new second-in-command, Mark Gerald. He’s the one that suggested we get shit popping by whacking the beaner whore.”

  “Gabriela Rivera,” Bradshaw said quietly as he pulled out his pen and notepad. “Use her name and spare me the rhetoric.”

  “Yeah,” Peters said after a moment. “Mark’s the one who suggested the idea. Get the race war going. The kettle’s boiling. We figured to push it to the brink.”

  “How long has Mark been with the group?”

  Peters squinted his eyes as he tried to recall. “Six months? Thereabouts?”

  “That’s a pretty quick rise to power,” Bradshaw said.

  “He put in his work pretty quick,” Peters said. “We were doing a border patrol a few months back, down in Sasabe. Rounded up some illegals. One of them got squirrelly, and Mark cut them all down with a quickness. Knew how to hide the bodies, too.”

  “I see,” Bradshaw said as he scribbled furiously. “How’d you hook up with Pfarrer?”

  “Bil
l?” Peters asked. Bradshaw nodded. “Through the Minutemen. I liked what the Minutemen were doing, but they weren’t going far enough. Refused to admit that the white race, white culture, all of it was under attack from all ends. The illegals, cultural Marxism…” A look from Bradshaw let Peters know that he caught the gist and to move on. “Bill was the first one I met who got it, like what I’d talked about with friends online. He wanted to form a breakaway group that did stuff like the Minutemen, but was willing to call a spade a spade. That’s what started the White Resistance.”

  Bradshaw nodded and remained silent a moment as he continued to write. “How many members does the WRM have?”

  “Full time, 70 members,” Peters said, with a hint of pride. “Most of those guys came over from the Minutemen, but a lot of them are also younger white folks coming to appreciate their culture. I’m in charge of recruitment and social outreach.”

  “Social outreach?”

  “We see white folks down on their luck, we help ‘em out. Food, clothing, shelter, get them jobs. Society’s all about helping out the black, the brown, the illegals, and the fags. Nobody gives a shit about the whites. That’s where we come in.”

  “Surprised the news hasn’t picked up on that.”

  “We keep the social outreach part low-key and word of mouth because we’re not trying to draw attention,” Peters said. “We already had one Fed try and infiltrate the group. We learned our lesson and manage to fend off the Kenyan Muslim’s jackboots. We’re bulletproof.”

  Not for long, Bradshaw didn’t say aloud. “How do you fund it? Guns? Drugs? Prostitution? Protection?”

  Peters laughed derisively. “Hell no. Do I look like a nigger?” Bradshaw fixed him with a glare that deflated his pride. Peters cleared his throat and continued, “It’s all legitimate. Most of us work for Bill’s trucking company, doing over the road work. We also expand our network that way. The White Resistance’s got feelers out in Virginia, California, Illinois, Pennsylvania, and all through the South. We’re the only core group, but we’ve got alliances with other reputable race-conscious groups.”