“So, is he embezzling money to pay for all of this?”
Peters shook his head. “You keep mistaking us for some real dumb peckerwoods. I’m telling you, the White Resistance keeps things above board specifically to keep the Man from coming at us.”
“Except for the whole ‘trying to kill a political activist’ and ‘we murdered four undocumented aliens’ bit.”
Peters took a deep breath and proceeded in a patient, borderline parental tone. “The direct action stuff is one deal. Compartmentalized. We’ve got a political action committee, deciding what campaigns we’ll donate to. Both are funded through voluntary contributions to the resistance’s morale fund. Ten percent each month to be a member in good standing.”
Bradshaw grunted as he continued to write down the key points. “Y’all meet at Joe’s?” When Peters gave him a look, Bradshaw rolled his eyes. “I’ve been following you for some time, Ricky. How do you think I know your name and who you’re rolling with? Use your brain, dude.”
Peters nodded. “The general meetings are at Joe’s. Pfarrer owns the bar.”
“Any other properties he owns that you know about?”
Peters combed his mind. “Owns his house. Owns Joe’s. Owns the Express truck lot. There is a bit of property he owns down in Vail.”
“Oh?” Bradshaw asked.
Peters nodded. “The group trains there. We do a lot of shooting. Learn some survival stuff, some basic first aid. Sometimes, those with families will bring them along for a retreat, network and catch up with other white folks on the right and narrow.”
Bradshaw underlined that in his notes. That property merited a proper recce at some point. He capped his pen and put it and the notepad away. “I think that’s all I’ve got for now.”
Peters took a deep breath. “What now?”
“Turn around.”
Peters reluctantly complied with the command. Bradshaw retrieved his handcuff key. “I’m going to uncuff you,” he said. “You buck on me, I’ll fuck you up.”
“Okay, man.”
Bradshaw unlocked the restraints, collected them, then sat back as Peters turned around. He pointed to Peters’s legs. “Pull your pants up. You look dumb sitting with your thighs pressed together.”
Peters did as he was told in long, deliberate movements. Once his pants were fastened to his waist, he said, “What else?”
Bradshaw reached to the front seat and grabbed Peters’s phone, a Samsung Galaxy S7. He extended the phone’s bottom end towards Peters. “Unlock it.” When Peters did so, Bradshaw retrieved the phone and pulled up the contacts. Bradshaw then pulled out his Alcatel burner smartphone, brought up the settings, and found the number. He punched the number into Peters’s phone, then saved it under the name “Logan.” Bradshaw then used Peters’s phone to call his burner. As soon as the Alcatel rang, Bradshaw killed the connection, the tossed the Samsung back in the front seat.
“What was that all about?” Peters asked.
“Making sure we have a line of communication,” Bradshaw said.
“Why’s that?”
Bradshaw smiled. “You’re my inside man, Ricky.”
Peters laughed. “I told you what I knew to save my skin. I ain’t spying for you.”
“Oh, you will.” Bradshaw pointed to the device he’d clipped to his shirt before commencing the interrogation. “Lenofocus mini body cam. Records HD 1080P video with audio.” He gave Peters a pitiful smile as the man deflated. “Anything happens to me, or you fail to make a scheduled meet, or you give me bad intel? Bill Pfarrer gets a copy of this interview in his work email. What I threatened to do to you will tickle compared to what your people will do if they think you’re a race traitor.”
Bradshaw suppressed a grin as Peters grew pale. A silent moment passed. He put his knife back in his pocket, opened the Odyssey’s sliding door, and jumped out.
“Come on out, Ricky.”
Peters made his way to the door and leapt to the ground. Bradshaw produced a handcuff key from his keychain and undid Peters’s restraints. Once the restraints were collected, Bradshaw dug out Peters’s cell phone and wallet from the floorboard and handed them over.
“Call your buddies and tell them to come pick you up.”
Peters’s eyes bulged as he finally found his voice. “Are you nuts? They’ll know something’s up. They get maimed, and I walk away with barely a scratch?”
Bradshaw stepped to the front passenger’s door and placed his cuffs back in the kit bag. As he rummaged about, Peters said, “Are you listening, dude? I can’t just walk back in, not after this!”
When Bradshaw emerged, he held his collapsible baton. He locked it out quick, then swung and connected with Peters’s shin. Peters yelped and fell to the desert, clutching his leg. Bradshaw took a knee, collapsed the baton, and stood over Peters.
“You tell ‘em I was a Blood running protection for México Lindo. I brought you out here to kill you, but I was struck with mercy and let you off with a warning.” Bradshaw paused and clicked his tongue. “Besides, if Bill Pfarrer runs as efficient of an outfit as you describe, I imagine he won’t be too pleased with your shaking down brown folks and risking unnecessary heat. He’ll take you not getting arrested or killed as a small victory.”
“Goddamn it, man…” Peters groaned.
“It smarts,” Bradshaw agreed, “but I hit you with maybe 20% power. It’ll bruise, but your shin’s intact. Ice it when you get where you’re going. Check in with me via SMS as soon as you’re in the clear, and we’ll set up meeting procedures.” He took a deep breath and added, “If I don’t get a text by 8:00 PM, I’m coming for you. You tracking?”
When Peters nodded emphatically, Bradshaw closed the sliding and front passenger doors, then jogged around the hood to the driver’s seat. A moment later, the Odyssey was brought to life, and Bradshaw pulled away from the spot. When he reached highway speed, he merged off the shoulder. He’d get off at the next exit, loop around to the I-10 E service road, and return to Tucson in time to download the video and get a few hours’ sleep before his shift.
Fifteen minutes later, Kazimir Merkulov slowly pulled up in his beige Chevy Malibu. Peters stood on his good leg, the pain evident in his face. When Merkulov disembarked and approached Peters, the latter’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Mark!” Peters asked. “I barely called. How’d you get up here so quickly?”
“Tim and Luke got away from México Lindo clean,” Merkulov said. “They said that you’d been kidnapped and I took the call. Been cruising up I-10 for a while hoping to catch up and interdict.” He put his hands on his hips and sighed. “Surprised you’re still alive.”
“You and me both, brother!” Peters said with a sigh of relief. “I am so glad to see you.”
“Don’t be too happy,” Merkulov said. “Bill was very specific when he said no unilateral action. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that maybe those spic motherfuckers should feel what we felt when their race traitor bodyguards murdered our brothers,” Peters spat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reflecting on the past hour. “But, I was wrong. Bill was right.”
“Just wish it didn’t take Tim and Luke getting fucked up and you getting kidnapped for you to realize that.”
Peters winced. “I know, I know. Can we just get out of here? I need a beer.”
“Certainly.” Merkulov gestured to the Malibu. “Get in.”
As Peters hobbled forward, he got his first good look at the vehicle. “Huh. What happened to the 350?”
“Wouldn’t start,” Merkulov lied. “Had to use my lady’s car.”
Merkulov was telling the truth when he said that Peters’s compatriots—Tim O’Neill and Luke Barnes—had called to inform him of what had happened. What he had left out was that he was already tracking Bradshaw. When Bradshaw’s vehicle hadn’t moved, Merkulov had staked out his place and replaced the tracker’s battery. That was when Bradshaw pulled up in a van which was not in
his file. Merkulov had to give Bradshaw credit: the man quickly adapted to the circumstances. While Bradshaw had been inside his apartment, Merkulov risked discovery to place a tracker on the van.
When Merkulov learned that Bradshaw was staking out Peters’s place, he was immediately on alert. Out of the four members of the WRM’s inner circle, Peters was certainly the weakest link. Shaking down the grocery was a stupid move, and it resulted in an intelligence win for Bradshaw. Merkulov had watched from further down the highway, and had witnessed Bradshaw remove Peters’s cuffs then strike him in the shin for good measure. The idea might have worked if Merkulov hadn’t seen enough to determine that Peters was compromised.
As Peters hobbled to the Malibu, Merkulov approached from behind and quietly extended the blade to his CRKT M16 knife. Before Peters could climb inside, Merkulov clamped his left hand on top of Peters’s head while the right drove the CRKT’s blade into the base of the skull, severing the brain stem. Peters went limp immediately, and Merkulov slowly lowered the body to the ground. He cleaned the blade on Peters’s shirt, then retracted the knife and jogged to the Malibu.
Five minutes later, Merkulov had made the turn-around and was headed back towards Tucson. At worst, somebody would spot the body in the morning. If Bradshaw had covered his tracks, then he would simply lose his asset. If he hadn’t, Merkulov had no doubt that Bradshaw would be in shackles by Monday evening. Either way, Bradshaw was back to square one, and the damage to the organization was mitigated.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tucson, Arizona
27 August 2018
08:25 hours Tango (15:25 hours Zulu)
“Let’s see what’s on the schedule today,” Rivera said into her Bluetooth earpiece as she consulted her iPhone. “An initial consultation at 10:00, and an added consultation with a client at the County Jail after lunch. I wanna have a Skype call with U of A and ASU Young Democrats. Get some coordination going and lock in the date. We need to see if Elise has had any luck securing the permits.”
Bradshaw said nothing. His hands were clasped in front of him and his eyes were locked on the balcony door.
“I can shoot her and Akshara some texts here in a moment,” Rivera continued. “Set something up.”
Bradshaw let out a long breath. His mind was on his pending meet with Ricky Peters. He also made a note to do some social media snooping on the event Rivera mentioned. It was the first Bradshaw had heard of it. If there was another rally in the works, there was a solid chance that Pfarrer and his crew would take another shot.
“Okay, good,” Rivera said. “Let me know. I’ll talk to you soon. Uh-huh. Goodbye.” She killed the line, removed the earpiece, and set it on the desk.
“Do you need anything from me, ma’am?” Bradshaw asked.
Rivera shook her head. “No.”
Bradshaw nodded. “I’ll be in the breakroom if you need me, ma’am.” He turned for the door.
“Jack?” Rivera asked.
“Yes, ma’am?” Bradshaw asked.
Rivera took a deep, preparatory inhale. “I owe you an apology for Friday.”
Bradshaw shook his head. “Think nothing of it, ma’am. Water under the bridge.”
Rivera canted her head to the side. “Except I have been thinking of it, Jack. All weekend.”
Bradshaw shifted slightly to his right to better face Rivera. “Yes, ma’am?”
Rivera nodded. “You’ve been nothing but professional with me, even when I angered you. You’ve shown me a basic level of respect, and all I’ve done is try and goad you into violating your ethical obligations.” She took another deep breath and hung her head. “I did exactly what I said I wouldn’t do: berate and belittle you. I failed to demonstrate basic respect for your friend, and I apologize.”
Bradshaw took a deep breath and adjusted his footing. “I appreciate that, ma’am, and I understand that passions can run high when it comes to politics.”
“That’s something else I thought about,” Rivera said. “While ICE has never been my favorite agency, they hadn’t drawn this sort of ire during the previous administration. I think that those agents are like people anywhere else: they want a livable wage and to feed their families. I may take umbrage with the agency’s leadership, and they’ve certainly got assholes on a power trip, but I should judge each one by their individual actions rather than paint all of them with the same brush.”
Bradshaw nodded, genuinely impressed with Rivera’s comments. “It sounds like you had quite the introspective weekend, ma’am.”
“That, I did,” Rivera said with a polite smile.
Bradshaw returned the gesture and decided to risk a joke. “Does that mean you’re ditching the ‘Abolish ICE’ shirt?”
“Dream on,” Rivera said with a laugh. After a moment, she added, “Though maybe ‘abolish’ should come with qualifications. Replacing it with something with constraints limiting their scope to hardened criminals.”
“That’s certainly an idea that could be discussed across the aisle,” Bradshaw said.
Rivera smiled again, then extended her hand towards Bradshaw. “So, we’re good?”
Bradshaw accepted the gesture. “We’re good.” As Rivera stepped back to her desk, he said, “Ma’am?”
Rivera turned back. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Rivera smiled. “You can thank me by giving me another chance and honoring our original agreement behind closed doors. You’re making me feel old.”
Bradshaw returned the smile, hung his head, then retrained his gaze on Rivera. “You’ve got it…Gabs.”
Rivera took a seat, a wide smile on her face and a burden lifted from her shoulders. Bradshaw turned and made his way towards the break room. She’s okay, he thought to himself. Misguided, but still…attempting to mend bridges with a contract employee with whom they don’t agree? That’s big.
Bradshaw entered the break room. It was spartan, devoid of any motivational photos or other décor. A few simple, round tables and matching hard-plastic classroom chairs made up the furniture. There was a counter with a sink and faucet, with a bottle of Ajax liquid detergent and a scrub pad. The fridge was about the most decorative thing in the room, with a variety of magnets, some of the location-centric and others political.
His eyes widened as he spotted Jeremy Hawthorne seated at one of the tables, facing the door. He was dressed in a black ICE polo, khaki cargo pants, and hiking boots. His SIG-Sauer P320C rode in a Kydex holster on his right hip, just behind his clip-on ICE badge. Hawthorne’s face was contorted in a scowl. Bradshaw maintained an impassive expression.
“Special Agent Hawthorne,” he said evenly. “Are you here to speak with Ms. Rivera?”
Hawthorne shook his head. “I’m here for you, Bradshaw. We need to talk.”
Bradshaw’s eyes narrowed. “I’m on the clock.”
“Me, too.” Hawthorne folded his arms. “My employers carry a bit more juice than yours. We can have a nice chat here, or I can brace you, drive to Phoenix, and process you there. Your call, Bradshaw.”
Bradshaw gave him a slow nod, then walked past the ICE agent to the fridge. “Would you like something to drink, Special Agent Hawthorne?”
“No,” Hawthorne said curtly.
Bradshaw shrugged, grabbed a bottle of Arrowhead, and made his way to his seat. As he cracked the bottle open, he said, “What’s going on?”
Hawthorne interlaced his fingers and rested them on the table. “Where were you last night around, say, 20:00 hours?”
“Out driving,” Bradshaw said evenly. His posture was relaxed, but his pulse elevated. He knows.
“Whereabouts?”
“Somewhere on the south side,” Bradshaw said. Just enough to be truthful if he’s got something, not enough to positively place me at the scene.
Another voice inside Bradshaw’s mind said, What the hell does this have to do with ICE?
Hawthorne produced his Samsung Galaxy S8+, scrolled through his photos, and turned the screen to
wards Bradshaw. “You recognize him?”
On the screen was a recent surveillance photo of Ricky Peters. Shit. Is ICE surveilling the WRMs, too? Shit, shit, shit.
“You wanna tell me what this is about?” Bradshaw asked.
“I’m asking the questions,” Hawthorne said icily.
Bradshaw took a sip from the Arrowhead bottle, then folded his arms. “You haven’t Mirandized me, so this is a field interview, not an interrogation. That means I’m not being detained, and I can walk right out that door.”
A sneer crossed Hawthorne’s face. “You do that, and I’ll happily slap the cuffs on you and perp walk your ass out of here. Then it will be an interrogation.”
“Go ahead,” Bradshaw growled. “Then I’ll have my lawyer tell you to blow me. That wouldn’t be a problem if you had some sort of evidence that I was complicit in wrongdoing…but you don’t have that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t start off with a fishing expedition.”
“You wanna know what I have?” Hawthorne snarled. He swiped the screen left. A photo of Ricky Peters laying in blood-soaked soil, his skin pale, filled the screen. Bradshaw’s eyes widened as he leaned forward to look. “I’ve got a dead member of the group I’ve been investigating. Killed by a single stab wound to the base of his skull. An amateur might try slitting the throat, only to learn that the trachea’s a bitch to cut through. A professional, SpecWar type, would know this kind of wound is an instant lights-out. The kind of thing you learn at Coronado…or Fort Benning.”
Hawthorne swiped again. A grainy surveillance still filled the screen, but Hawthorne didn’t press “play.” “This is from the surveillance system at México Lindo, down on 6th and Valencia. Had an interesting chat with the owner, Robert Galvez. Says he and his daughter, Zöe, were closing up when three white men in masks robbed the store. Threw a bunch of racial epithets his way, roughed him and his daughter up.”
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