Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  “I get it, I get it,” Bradshaw said, holding up his hands. “You become horny teenagers.”

  “This gig keeps up, I’m gonna knock that poor girl up,” Simmons said with a grin. “I ain’t gotten this much trim in a minute.” He sighed and shook his head. “So, what’s good with you?”

  Bradshaw shrugged. “Nothing doing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Simmons folded his arms. “Last I checked, you promised me a rundown of what had you shook in Florence.”

  “I promised you an explanation once I had hard evidence,” Bradshaw said. “I don’t have it.”

  “I know you don’t embellish shit,” Simmons said. “You can tell me, and I’ll believe you on your word. What’s up?”

  Bradshaw sighed, then glanced both ways to ensure nobody was listening in. With his investigation escalating, he figured having an ally in his corner would be prudent.

  “I can’t give you the full story. Parts are classified.”

  “Then gimme the unclassified bits.”

  Bradshaw nodded, then gave Simmons an abbreviated version of events, starting from a redacted account of the 2017 firefight at COP Walker and ending with his confrontation with Jeremy Hawthorne. When Bradshaw concluded, Simmons’s smile had been replaced with a look of incredulity.

  “So, lemme make sure I’ve got this right: a white dude you swear you shot and killed overseas is here in the States, running with Klansmen types. You can’t get into details about how you know that with the police unless your old bosses give you the go-ahead, which they won’t because they buried the incident. So, you started your own investigation that’s escalated into kidnapping and intimidation.”

  Bradshaw nodded as he processed the summary. “Yeah. That’s about the long and short of it.”

  “How’d Dominguez take it?”

  Bradshaw rubbed his temples. “Not well. I gave him an…altered version of the story. Same one I gave Rivera. He told me if I got hemmed up, he’d clip my balls with hedge trimmers, gold-plate them, and mount them to his wall next to my license. I wouldn’t have told him if I didn’t have to give a statement to Pinal County Sheriff’s and TPD, and I think he knew that.”

  “And how’d it go with the law?”

  “About the same that it went with Hawthorne, but more cordial. Probably because I brought Rivera with me. Got the lecture about ‘leaving police work to police,’ but end of the day, I didn’t break any laws, so they thanked me for reporting it but told me to be faster next time.”

  “You lucked out.”

  “I know.”

  “I haven’t risked surveillance since then. Been trying to get a bead on if I’m being followed by ICE.”

  “Probably the smart move.” Simmons put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I didn’t know you got down like that, white boy. Some real gangsta, criminal-minded shit.”

  “You’ve got to keep this to yourself,” Bradshaw said. “If Dominguez asks, you tell him I said Peters was my asset and nothing else. Don’t talk to anybody about this. Not even Gia.”

  “Understood,” Simmons said. “If you need help, don’t forget my number.”

  Bradshaw shook his head. “That’s an absolute last resort. You’ve got a family. You end up on the Russian’s radar, you or your family could hit the target deck.”

  “I’ll send Gia and the kids to Phoenix,” Simmons said. “If you need muscle, don’t leave me out.”

  “If it reaches that point, things have gotten seriously fucked.” Bradshaw dug into his pocket for the car keys, company fuel card, and accompanying receipt. He extended them to Simmons. “Wanna log it for me? You’re headed up to get a vehicle, anyway.”

  “For sure,” Simmons said. He accepted the items, then clapped Bradshaw on the shoulder. “Stay frosty, dude.”

  Bradshaw nodded, then made towards his Corolla. He stuck his finger in the carabiner that held his house and car keys. With the flick of his wrist, Bradshaw was an Old West gunfighter, and his keys were his six-shooter. Bradshaw increased the rotation speed until it became uncontrollable as he closed on the Corolla. The keys made impact with the asphalt and skidded beneath the fender.

  “Smooth,” Bradshaw muttered under his breath. He tucked his tie into his shirt, removed his jacket, and laid it on the trunk. Assuming a push-up position, Bradshaw lowered himself to the ground without touching his pants or shirt against the asphalt. He saw his keys and reached for them.

  That’s when he saw the familiar rectangular shape affixed to the Toyota’s underbelly. Bradshaw’s blood plunged to Siberian temperatures as he slowly reached for his keys. When he got them, he pushed back up and leapt to his feet. Bradshaw scanned both ways, his heart thumping in his chest. His hand trembled as he reached into his pocket for the Kyocera flip phone and dialed the number from memory. Rick Dalton picked up a ringtone and a half later.

  “Dalton.”

  “Clear your schedule. I need to see you tonight. In Tucson.”

  “Can it wait?” Dalton asked.

  “No. I’ll tell you more when you arrive.”

  Dalton sighed. “I’ll be there at 21:30. Better order Hate Chicken catering or this is going to seriously dampen our friendship.”

  “Just get here,” Bradshaw said curtly as he killed the connection.

  Bradshaw heard the trio of knocks at the door. He scooped up the Glock 19 from the table, press-checked it, then moved towards the far side of the window. “Who is it?” he called.

  “It’s Dalton, you paranoid fuck,” the answer came. “Lemme in already.”

  Bradshaw recognized his voice, but still moved to the door’s peephole to check, the Glock’s muzzle pressed against the door. Once he saw Dalton was alone and showed no signs of duress, Bradshaw undid the deadbolt and the knob lock, then opened the door, gesturing for Dalton to enter.

  “Smells good in here,” Dalton said as he stepped inside. Bradshaw quickly closed and secured the door. Dalton’s eyes fell on the medium platter of Chick-Fil-A tenders with the two 8-ounce cups of the restaurant’s signature sauce. His mouth watered, but then his eyes took in the rest of the scene. Light switch covers were removed, and beside the platter was Bradshaw’s laptop, completely dismantled. The television atop the entertainment center was also disassembled.

  Bradshaw saw the look on Dalton’s face and said, “Had to sweep for bugs. We’re clean and free to talk.”

  “What the fuck is this, Bradshaw?” Dalton asked. Bradshaw grabbed the Alcatel burner phone, which caused Dalton’s eyes to widen further. “Whoa, whoa, you got a smartphone?”

  “Burner, specifically to Facebook stalk one of the WRMs,” Bradshaw said. He opened the photo album app and showed Dalton a pair of photos. It only took a moment for Dalton to recognize what was being shown.

  “Shit,” Dalton said. “Somebody tagged your vehicle?”

  “Vehicles,” Bradshaw said. “The van’s my surveillance vic.” He powered down the Alcatel, then disassembled it. “It’s got to be the Russian.”

  “Maybe,” Dalton said. “Could also be Hawthorne.”

  Bradshaw fixed Dalton with a look. “Would he go that far without a warrant?”

  “The way he was talking about you, it’s a possibility,” Dalton said. “He’s got a real hard-on for you right now.”

  “The fuck is he doing poking around this?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Way above my clearance level,” Dalton said. “Seems his task force is in Tucson more than Phoenix nowadays, though he stopped by the office today. Heard a lot of frustrated screaming and something about a ‘wetback cunt.’” Dalton mimed quotation marks when he repeated the slur.

  “Probably talking about Rivera,” Bradshaw said evenly. “She saved my bacon the other day. He was trying to strong-arm me and she picked me up as a pro-bono client on the spot.”

  Dalton gave Bradshaw an approving look. “Glad to see your dick game’s still strong.”

  “It’s not like that.” Bradshaw’s voice took on an edge.

  “I know,
I know,” Dalton said, his hands held up. “‘Too professional to bang a client,’ blah, blah, blah. I don’t see her as the type to scoop up a white boy’s case on the fly like that unless she likes you.”

  “We’re off-track,” Bradshaw said. “I need to track this signal. See where it’s transmitting.”

  Dalton reached for a chicken tender and dipped it in sauce. “Put your computer back together. You write down the serial numbers?”

  “Of course I did,” Bradshaw said as he took a seat on the futon beside Dalton.

  Fifteen minutes later, Dalton was full and the laptop was reassembled. He looked to Bradshaw with a content look. “You know the way to a fella’s heart.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bradshaw said flatly. He powered up the computer.

  “You got anything to drink?” Dalton asked.

  “There’s some beer in the fridge,” Bradshaw said. “Help yourself.”

  Dalton rose and made his way to the refrigerator. He returned to the futon with a bottle of Coors Light in hand. Dalton twisted off the top, then took a pull on the longneck. He held the bottle in front of him with a disgusted look on his face.

  “We’ve really got to teach you about IPAs,” he said.

  “Beer’s beer,” Bradshaw said. “Coors is cheap.”

  “Philistine,” Dalton said. He set the beer down as Bradshaw handed over the booted-up and logged-in laptop. He shook his head and said, “Not gonna need that.”

  “So, how are you gonna track the signal?” Bradshaw asked.

  Dalton pulled out his phone and consulted his Notes app. “Oh, I’m not going to track it. That’s illegal as shit without a warrant, man.”

  Bradshaw’s face darkened. “I swear to God, Dalton, if you just swindled me out of $50 of chicken…”

  Dalton held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, slow down there, Bruce Banner. I said I wouldn’t track it. I never said it wouldn’t be tracked.” He found what he was looking for and showed Bradshaw the screen. “Write that number down.”

  Bradshaw retrieved his pen and notepad from the bedroom, then returned and scrawled the information down. “Who’s this?”

  “Grey hat hacker and SIGINT sniper that ICE uses on occasion to track cartel communications,” Dalton said. “Word on the street is that he learned his trade in the military, then realized he could make a killing on the grey market.”

  “You don’t know who he is?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Nobody knows who he is,” Dalton said. “We only know of his possible background because he uses the jargon. That might be an intentional diversion on his part. But, what’s undeniable is that he gets results without being caught.”

  “Then how do you know about him?”

  “He came to us. Seems that even though he’s got no problem breaking the law, he also doesn’t care for the cartels, child pornographers, or various other undesirables.”

  “What makes you think he’ll help me?”

  Dalton adopted a sly smile. “After Charlottesville, a bunch of the Tiki Torch Brigade got doxxed. It hasn’t been publicly released, but an FBI/ICE Cyber Crimes Task Force uncovered that somebody was data-mining their personal information, targeting the richest ones, and blackmailing them into hush money. Those who paid were warned not to show their faces at any future rallies. The ones who got froggy got hit.” The smile grew wider. “Do you think it was just law enforcement presence that reduced their numbers at their anniversary rally?”

  Bradshaw nodded slowly. “So, what’s the contact procedure?”

  “Contact that number within the next 24,” Dalton said. “It’s a burner. As soon as you contact it, he’ll ditch it. That’s basically to get your number. He’ll call you back on a secure line with a voice scrambler. He pings the signal across various towers to prevent tracking and monitors for any tracing attempts. Basically puts the ball in his court. You call him, tell him I sent you, and he’ll hook you up.”

  Bradshaw nodded and held up the notepad. “Now you’ve earned your Hate Chicken.”

  Dalton nodded and said, “Oh, and one more thing.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Utilizing his services is a massive violation of federal law,” Dalton said. “You get caught—”

  “I didn’t get it from you,” Bradshaw said with a nod.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tucson, Arizona

  6 September 2018

  19:58 hours Tango (02:58 hours Zulu)

  After another day of chauffeur duty and a strenuous post-work gym session, Bradshaw was struck with a sudden craving for steak. When he reached his apartment, he showered, then changed into a black polo shirt, jeans, and his favorite hiking boots. Bradshaw put on his full EDC, then made his way toward the Longhorn Steakhouse, located in the central-east commercial district on Broadway.

  When he entered, Bradshaw noted that the establishment wasn’t nearly as crowded as he’d expected. He seated himself at the bar and picked up a menu. By the time the barkeep came around to take his order, Bradshaw had already decided on his meal. He ordered water, a Caesar salad, and an 8-ounce Renegade Sirloin, medium rare, with steamed broccoli on the side.

  As the barkeep entered the order on their kiosk, Bradshaw reached into his pocket for his notepad. He looked at the number Dalton had given him. It was nearing the 24-hour mark and Bradshaw still hadn’t called. He sighed, then reached into his pocket for his Kyocera phone. Bradshaw flipped the phone open, punched in the digits, and then allowed his thumb to hover over the CALL button.

  Fuck it. In for a penny…

  Bradshaw initiated the call. The phone dialed for six ringtones, then went to a strange series of digital chimes. He pulled the phone from his ear, stared at the display, and then killed the connection. Bradshaw shut the phone and set it on the bar just as a server approached, a Caesar salad in hand. He thanked him, then picked up a fork and prepared to dig into the salad.

  The Kyocera vibrated on the bar. Bradshaw set the fork in the bowl, picked up the phone, and saw that the incoming call was from a blocked number. He answered a second later.

  “Hello.”

  “Jack Bradshaw.” The voice was deep and distorted. “I have two questions that will determine the course of this conversation.”

  Bradshaw cleared his throat and sat up straight. “Okay.”

  “Who gave you this number? Speak freely.”

  It went against everything Bradshaw had been taught about operational and personal security, but Dalton had said explicitly to drop his name. “Rick Dalton.”

  “Good. How do you take your steak?”

  Bradshaw blinked. “Say again?”

  “It’s not a trick question,” the voice asked. “How do you take your steak?”

  “Medium rare,” Bradshaw said slowly.

  “Good. If you’d have said ‘well done,’ this conversation would have been terminated.” There was a pause. “Also, when do you plan on joining the 21st century and getting a smartphone?”

  Bradshaw snorted. “I’m presuming from the opening question that you’ve managed to trace my location. You were also able to pull up phone registration. That’s all off of a dumb phone. Imagine what you’d be able to access if I had an iPhone or a Droid.”

  “Fair point,” the voice said. “The thing is, we live in a digital world. It’s getting harder to live an off-grid, cash-only existence. Storing funds offshore? Might save you from the IRS, but it won’t save you from me.”

  “True,” Bradshaw said. “But there’s a difference between being discoverable and carrying an accurate tracking device on your person at all times.”

  “I concede the point.”

  “You’ve been on the line a bit. You’re not worried that I could be tracing this call?”

  Bradshaw was sure that if the voice scrambler was removed, the laughter would have been warm. Instead, a chill crawled down Bradshaw’s spine as he imagined Mephistopheles on the other end, comfortably engulfed in flames.

  “Trust me, if you’re utilizing my services, y
ou’re incapable of tracing the call. That’s not meant as a slight. Think of it as a novice shooter suggesting he could best you on the range.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Give me the serial numbers.”

  Bradshaw read them off. The voice read them back to him, then told him to hold a moment. Bradshaw cradled the phone between his shoulder and face as he started working on the salad. Thirty seconds later, the voice returned.

  “Both of those Spark Micro serial numbers are registered to the same account, and they have accessed the app from a variety of locations throughout the Tucson metro area, most frequently from Marana and Oro Valley. The Marana location is usually in the daytime and evening hours, and the Oro Valley location is usually in the early morning. This is dual confirmed, both through the company records and through actual signal tracking.”

  “Makes sense,” Bradshaw said. The Marana location would be Joe’s, and “Mark Gerald’s” home of residence was in Oro Valley. That ruled out Hawthorne as the trackers’ owner.

  “Write this down,” the voice said. Bradshaw broke out his pen and pad. “All lowercase. G-I-G-G-I-T-Y-4-7-9-7 at Gmail.” When Bradshaw read it back to the voice, they provided the password, then said, “I will include additional tracking data through the drafts folder. Check there at 21:00 hours daily for updates.”

  “Got it.” He closed the notepad. “Thank you.”

  The voice terminated the call without response. Bradshaw’s mind wanted to know more about the voice’s identity, but he put that aside. The important thing was that he had confirmation that the Russian had successfully surveilled him and likely had a working pattern of life. The Russian certainly knew that Bradshaw had flipped Peters, or suspected enough to take preventative action through murder. It was that knowledge over which Bradshaw mulled as he finished his salad and awaited his entrée.

  “That’s his car right there?” Kris Williamson asked.

  “Yeah,” Kazimir Merkulov said from the backseat. In his hands was a Century Arms N-PAP sporting rifle, a semi-automatic Yugoslav version of the venerable AK-47. Merkulov mimicked American Kalashnikov enthusiasts in defending his selection, citing the rifle’s rugged durability and the cheapness of ammunition. In actuality, while those were factors, Merkulov was simply the most trained and familiar with the AK platform.