At that moment, Hawthorne rolled the footage. Bradshaw caught a bird’s-eye view of his intervention against the WRMs. Hawthorne narrated. “Then, in comes a fourth white man, features concealed, dealing out some kind of Kick Ass-style justice in the form of what appears to be fractured bones. Nothing lethal, though. The sort of thing a professional might concoct if he were tailing somebody and witnessed an event in progress which he couldn’t ignore.”
Bradshaw watched as he grabbed Peters and dragged him out of the store. A moment later, Needle-Dick crawled to the counter, hefted himself to his good leg, then hobbled over and helped Doofus stand. The two leaned on each other and limped out of the store.
“What happened to those two?” Bradshaw asked.
“They got away before TPD could arrive,” Hawthorne said. “But the curious thing is, the good Samaritan matches your height and build. So, you can either start talking, or I’ll happily read you your rights and charge you with the murder of Ricky Peters.”
Bradshaw looked at a nearby wall and smirked. It grew into a full-blown smile, and then into laughter. Hawthorne’s eyes narrowed, and his tone dropped dangerously low as he set the phone down on the table, screen first.
“I’m sorry. What’s so goddamned funny?”
Bradshaw wiped his cheeks and lips, then locked onto Hawthorne with a piercing gaze. “You’re a fucking idiot is what’s so funny.” He leaned forward, his palms on the table. “Why the fuck would I want to kill my fucking asset?”
Hawthorne glowered. “Your asset?”
“I’d flipped Ricky Peters. Caught him in an act that would cost him standing with the WRMs. He was my early warning radar in case somebody took another crack at my principal.”
“You’re a fucking PI!” Hawthorne bellowed. “A fucking rent-a-clown who can’t hack it in the big leagues! You don’t fucking rate running CIs!”
“And yet, here I am, doing your job,” Bradshaw said acidly. “Last I checked, there’s nothing in US Code or Arizona Revised Statutes saying it’s illegal for a private citizen to run an asset.”
“There is if you’ve learned of a criminal conspiracy and you kept it to yourself,” Hawthorne said.
“And if I had something actionable, I would have passed it along,” Bradshaw said, unsure if he’d just uttered a falsehood.
A tense silence hung between the two men. Hawthorne tapped his fingers on the back of his Samsung. “Explain your actions at México Lindo.”
“My CI was being pressured by the other two to do something about the WRMs I killed in Florence. He called me to tail him and try to intervene. Things developed before I arrived. I had to come up with a credible plan to extract the asset while maintaining his cover. I specifically used non-lethal force to disable the threats.”
“A convenient explanation.”
“The truth tends to be.”
Hawthorne grunted. “Do you have proof that Peters was your CI?”
“Yep,” Bradshaw answered immediately.
“Where?”
“In a safe place.”
“Not good enough,” Hawthorne said. “Stand up. You’re coming with me.”
The door burst open, and Rivera marched to Bradshaw’s side, her face laced with cold, determined anger. “Jack, not another word,” she instructed. As Bradshaw settled back into his chair, Rivera locked eyes with Hawthorne. “Hi. This interview’s over.”
Hawthorne lifted his chin and smirked. “Ah. It’s the champion of the ‘downtrodden.’”
“And, more importantly, Mr. Bradshaw’s legal counsel,” Rivera said. “My client is here willingly and is cooperating with your investigation. If you’re going to badger him, then fine. All further communication from your agency will go through me.” She smiled. “That includes warrants and subpoenas.”
Hawthorne pointed a finger at Bradshaw. “Your client just confessed to aggravated assault and fleeing a crime scene.”
“Arizona Revised Statutes, Title 13, Chapter 4 specifically authorizes physical or deadly force in defense of a third party in any situation where the one using force would be justified in using the same level of force to defend themselves.” Rivera smiled. “I make it a point to keep current on local criminal law, just in case the feds try to co-opt the state government to make a case.” She looked to Bradshaw. “You said you used a baton?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bradshaw said, rolling with it while a part of him wondered how loud he and Hawthorne had been.
“With what were the assailants armed?” Rivera asked.
“A blackjack and a pair of brass knuckles.”
Rivera extended a hand towards Bradshaw, then clapped her hands together. “There you go. Agg assault charges don’t stick.”
“There’s unlawful flight from a crime scene,” Hawthorne protested.
“Well, that’s the beautiful thing about Arizona law,” Rivera said. “There is no specific statute for that. The closest you’re gonna get would be in Title 28, the Transportation Code. Both are in Chapter 3. Article 2, Section 622, Subsection 01 covers unlawful flight from a law enforcement vehicle. Article 3, Section 663 covers fleeing from the scene of a hit-and-run, or duty to give information and assistance. Neither apply here.”
Hawthorne’s scowl deepened. He turned his eyes to Bradshaw. “I’m going to want evidence of your running this PI.”
“If he’s legally obligated to provide such evidence, he will…through my office,” Rivera said. “And last I checked, your role in this investigation can only be purely supplementary in nature. This is a local murder case. Where was the body found?”
“Outside of Red Rock,” Hawthorne said through clenched teeth.
“That means Pinal County Sheriff’s takes the lead. Not ICE.” She removed a business card from her pant pocket, set it on the table, and slid it across to Hawthorne with two fingers. “That’s my business card for future contacts. One of yours, please.”
Reluctantly, Hawthorne reached into his credential wallet, pulled out a business card, and extended it towards Rivera. She snatched it up, looked at it, then nodded and slipped it into her pocket. “Now, if there’s nothing further, Special Agent Hawthorne, please depart the premises.”
Hawthorne smiled, collected his phone, and rose to his feet. “I’ll be in touch,” he said simply. Without another word, he walked past Rivera and out the door.
Rivera studied the card in her hands as the outer door closed in the background. “Says he’s out of the DC Field Office. The hell’s he doing out here?”
“I hear he’s part of an interagency task force,” Bradshaw said. “Still haven’t pegged why he’s in town, or why he’s gunning for me.” He let out a long sigh of relief and ran his hands over his face. He turned in his chair and looked up at Rivera. “I owe you one, Gabs.”
“Please,” Rivera said. “We’re not close to even.” She shrugged. “I figure if I can’t buy the man who saved my life a drink, I can at least keep him out of lockup.”
Bradshaw smiled as he stood. “I appreciate it.”
As he started for the door, Rivera put a hand on his arm. When Bradshaw looked at her, she said, “I heard the shouts from my office. Had my ear to the door around the time where you said you were trying to extract an asset. What’s the story behind that?”
“Proactive executive protection,” Bradshaw said, sticking to the story. “Figured if I had a man inside the WRMs, we’d know if they were going to take another crack at you.”
“‘Worms?’”
“White Resistance Movement members. I’ve started calling them WRMs for short.”
Rivera grinned. “I like it. It’s catchy. Descriptive of their nature.”
Bradshaw offered a tight-lipped smile. “Me, too.”
Rivera’s hand remained in place. “But really. What’s the story?”
“It’s like I said. Had an asset that needed extraction.”
Rivera’s expression was impassive. “You’re a good liar, Jack. Solid enough to fool Hawthorne. But I’ve
seen better. If you’re gonna keep playing with fire, watch your step.” She nodded towards the door. “You’re on his radar. He’ll be gunning for you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Bradshaw said.
It was midday on Monday, which meant Joe’s was largely empty. As Bill Pfarrer paced back and forth in the backroom, a small part of him recognized that was for the best. He felt his inner Marine Corps NCO racing to the forefront as his eyes bored holes into Timothy O’Neill and Luke Barnes. Both men sported splints, and Barnes’s arm was in a sling. The odd pair were smart enough to avert their gaze, and Barnes—the larger of the two—looked as if he knew the drill. It made sense: Barnes was an Army artillery veteran, and would have been on the receiving end of the type of verbal barrage Pfarrer was on the cusp of releasing.
“Do you know what kind of attention you’ve drawn to us?” Pfarrer asked quietly, his hands clasped behind his back. When neither man offered an answer, he stopped in front of O’Neill and leaned in. “I believe I asked you a question, Timothy.”
“We wore masks, sir,” O’Neill said quietly.
Pfarrer gave a look of faux impress. “You wore masks.” He mimed wiping sweat from his brow and chuckled. “Well, guess that solves everything, except for the fact that one of your fucking brothers is dead!” By the end of the sentence, Pfarrer’s face was close enough to O’Neill’s that the latter felt the former’s spittle land on his cheek.
Barnes raised his head and cleared his throat to speak. “Sir—”
Pfarrer stood upright and held a finger out. “I swear to God, Barnes, if the words ‘we wanted to avenge our brothers’ leave your fucking mouth, they’ll need a new PornHub category to describe how hard I’ll skullfuck you.”
Barnes lowered his head again and rolled his lips inward. Pfarrer returned to pacing, though his voice remained elevated. “I specifically forbade any sort of retaliatory action. I passed my reasons along and expected my subordinates to disseminate that information. Ricky knew my wishes and he went against them. He’s paid a fatal price for his stupidity.”
Pfarrer stopped and glared at both men. “That’s right. Ricky got what he had coming. If that dim-witted son of a bitch would have just listened to me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He let the gravity of what he just said linger in the air before he continued to move and lowered his voice. “The fortunate thing is that since you did wear masks, it won’t come back on us.”
Silent moments passed as Pfarrer continued to stride. Finally, he stopped between the two of them, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath in through his nose. “Do you have any idea who this mysterious assailant was?”
Barnes shook his head. “He was wearing a mask, sir.”
Mark Gerald entered in time to hear the tail end of Barnes’s answer. He approached with papers in his hand, and held them up as he closed in on Pfarrer. “I might have an answer to that question.”
Pfarrer directed his attention to Gerald. “Tell me.”
“Contact of mine gave this to me,” Gerald said. Pfarrer took the papers from Gerald and skimmed the pages as Gerald elaborated. “Jack Bradshaw. He’s a PI and bodyguard with First Guard Protective. He’s Rivera’s detail lead. Did 11 years in the Army, all of it with the Ranger Regiment. As you can see, the last few years is some real secret squirrel shit.”
“This guy CAG?” Pfarrer asked with a frown. His question referred to the Combat Applications Group, one of the Army Special Mission Unit’s various nicknames.
Gerald shook his head. “If that’s the case, his last assignment would’ve been USASOC.” He pointed to a part of the dossier. “Says his last assignment was Special Troops Battalion. If he’d gone pogue, none of his shit would be redacted. That means he’s RRC.”
Pfarrer was even more confused. “RRC?”
“Regimental Reconnaissance Company,” Gerald said. “Specializes in special reconnaissance and limited direct action. Word on the street is that they got pimped out so much to CAG and DEVGRU that they got brought into the JSOC fold wholesale.”
Pfarrer’s eyes returned to the paper. “No shit,” he murmured. “So why’s he gone vigilante?”
Gerald pursed his lips as he exhaled. “Seems to me that he was tailing Ricky. He’s certainly got the skillset for it.”
Pfarrer’s blood ran cold. “So…you’re telling me we’ve been staked out?”
“Yeah.” Gerald put his hands on his hips. “Good news is, he’s never walked into Joe’s. I’d recognize him if he had. There’s no way he’s managed to plant a bug in here, and I sweep it three times a day. He can’t run a D-Mic, either. Walls are too thick. But it’s a fair bet he’s been following us and knows where we live.”
Pfarrer met Gerald’s eyes. “So he suspects something, but has nothing actionable.”
“Yep.”
Pfarrer handed the dossier back to Gerald. “And he’d have nothing at all if these two dipshits hadn’t gone flying off the fucking handle.” O’Neill and Barnes kept their eyes to the ground. Pfarrer exhaled audibly, then said, “Sounds like the smart call is to do nothing and give him nothing to go on. As long as we don’t expose ourselves unnecessarily, he won’t know our moves until it’s too late.”
Gerald braced himself to defend his contrarian opinion. “I’m not sure that’s the right play.”
Pfarrer raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Bradshaw’s not law enforcement, and tailing our people is well outside of his charge. I can only think of two reasons why he’d go that far off the reservation: he’s either banging the wetback lawyer, or there’s some perceived, personal transgression he’s looking to avenge.”
“I’ve never met this Bradshaw in my life,” Pfarrer said.
“Neither have I,” Gerald said. “My point is that Bradshaw’s a highly-motivated individual with a background in special operations. He’s honed his craft in the most austere theaters of the war. This is not a person we want watching our every move.” He paused to choose his words. “There’s a good chance he snatched Ricky up to torture him. Who knows what Ricky was compelled to tell him before he passed?”
Gerald’s words made gears turn in Pfarrer’s head. “What are you suggesting?”
“We have to go on the offense. I’ll put together a team. I’ll run recon. They’ll be the trigger. We catch him with his pants down, make it look like a random act of violence.”
“Won’t that draw heat?” Pfarrer asked.
“That’s the beautiful thing about the plan,” Gerald said. “We use the liberast media against them. Bradshaw is neither a celebrity nor one of their ‘protected’ classes. As long as witnesses are minimal, the death of a straight white man will barely be a blip on the radar.”
Pfarrer clicked his tongue. “Fine. Pick your shooters. Take ‘em out to the compound, run ‘em through the paces.” He held up a finger. “No unilateral action. I want to be briefed on the progress and I make the final call on when to launch.”
Gerald nodded dutifully. “You’ve got it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tucson, Arizona
5 September 2018
18:55 hours Tango (6 September 01:55 hours Zulu)
Bradshaw returned the Crown Vic to the parking lot and hopped out. He checked the vehicle for cleanliness before he locked it. Leaning against the car, Bradshaw ran his hands over his face and closed his eyes. It had been a long week, even though he was overall better rested.
“Yo, Bradshaw.”
Bradshaw turned to see DJ Simmons approaching, sporting a black Raiders jersey, baggy jeans, and Adidas basketball sneakers. He acknowledged Simmons with an upward bob of his head, then stuck his hands in his pockets and met him halfway.
“What’s up, DJ?”
“Just coming in,” Simmons said. “Been working this gig for the past two weeks. Client’s basically paying me to go to the titty bar and get lap dances.”
Bradshaw gave him a sour, disbelieving look. “You’re shitting me.”
“Not
at all.” Simmons’s grin was one of a man who had found a way to have his cake and eat it, too.
Bradshaw folded his arms. “What’s Gia got to say about that? You sleeping on the couch? Looking for wife number four?”
The comment ricocheted off of Simmons’s wide smile. “Nope. It’s all in presentation. When I got the gig, I brought a copy of the contract home—”
That widened Bradshaw’s eyes. “Are you trying to get fired?”
Simmons held up his hands to placate Bradshaw. “Chill, dude, I ain’t a rookie. Check it out. I blacked out all the personal information. Brought the contract home, showed it to Gia. Of course she accused me of trying to go see some new titties, and then I pointed out the commission. Extra five Gs, homie.”
“Okay, now I’ve got to know,” Bradshaw said. “What exactly is the job?”
Simmons’s grin grew wider. “J.T. Patterson.”
Bradshaw’s eyebrows raced towards his hairline. “The Cardinals’ right guard?”
Simmons nodded. “He married himself a pretty little number, barely 21. Guess he knew her since high school or something. During the season, she works Tucson’s strip club circuit to rake in some supplemental income.”
“He knows about it?” Bradshaw asked.
“He knows, and she knows that he knows. Basically, the job is two-fold: make sure nobody gets handsy with her, and make sure she doesn’t try to get handsy with the clientele for some extra dough. All I do is go in there, watch what she does, throw the play money about, and write a log. Easiest money I’ve ever made.”
“So, Gia’s fine with that as long as you’re bringing home the extra money?”
“Oh, yeah. Already took her on a couple’s spa day, complete with mani-pedi.”
Bradshaw pursed his lips. “Somebody’s awfully secure in their masculinity.”
Simmons pointed to Bradshaw’s upper lip. “Coming from the man rocking the Rock Hudson ‘stache, that’s a compliment.”
“Ha, ha, ha.”
“Best part is, doesn’t matter how tired I am. I spend long enough in the club, I’m sprung. Get home, wake Gia up by going downtown, and then she—”
Fault Lines Page 22
