Merkulov’s N-PAP was an under-folding model devoid of after-market parts. He wore black Mechanix gloves to protect his hands from the heat that rapid firing would generate. Merkulov wore his usual goth rocker getup, with four additions: a Glock 17 in an RCS Perun holster on his right hip, two spare magazines in an RCS Kydex carrier on his left hip, a Tactical Tailor Modular Assault Vest over his T-shirt, and a long-sleeve flannel shirt to conceal the setup. The MAV had three HSGI Taco pouches, which held his spare rifle magazines. Mounted atop the HSGI Tacos was an admin pouch that held his 4x monocular.
The Jeep Wrangler’s other occupants—Williamson, Daniel Moore, and Ray Tanner—were dressed and equipped similarly. All had military combat arms experience. They’d patrolled the border together, with several murders and shootouts with cartel gunmen under their belts. The trio had taken the best to Merkulov’s training, which made them the best fit for the job.
In the shotgun seat, Moore pulled back the charging handle on his Daniel Defense DDM4, the barrel of which had been illegally modified to 12 inches by Shawn Taylor, the WRM’s armorer. Once Moore saw the dim glint of brass in the chamber, he rode the handle forward and tapped the forward assist to seat the round. He looked to Williamson and said, “Where the fuck is this motherfucker?”
“Be patient,” Merkulov admonished. “He went into the restaurant. He will come out.”
“Dunno why we need all this firepower for one man,” Tanner said from beside Merkulov.
“He’s tactically competent,” Merkulov said. “Take no chances.”
“C’mon, Mark,” Tanner insisted. “Ranger Regiment? Give me a fucking break. Rangers are just super in-shape grunts.”
“Why not ask Tim or Luke what they think of your assessment?” Merkulov asked quietly. That silenced Tanner. All three of the men had seen their comrades’ injuries.
Williamson flexed his hands on the wheel. “His skills notwithstanding, this should be a quick job. He won’t see us coming.”
“You’d better hope he doesn’t,” Merkulov warned. “Otherwise, we’re going to have a hell of a fight on our hands.”
Bradshaw sopped up the excess steak juices with a piece of bread and savored the meal’s final bites. He left a pair of $20 bills to cover the cost and tip, which earned him a smile from the barkeep. After a stop at the restroom, Bradshaw made his way to the parking lot.
He glanced to his right. The credit union where he’d surveilled the unfaithful manager with DJ Simmons was just down the street. That seemed like it was ages ago, but the reality was that only three weeks had passed. Bradshaw shook his head and exhaled audibly. While his living was far from ideal, things had certainly been simpler before taking the Rivera job.
Bradshaw walked the long way to his car. It was reverse-parked in the lot’s northwest corner. He used the clicker to unlock it, then stopped in his tracks to scan and assess. Something was off, but he could not identify a trigger. His eyes fell on several cars and scrutinized passersby. After a moment, he slowly continued towards his Corolla. Bradshaw transferred his keys to his left hand and let his right hover near his beltline. He reached the driver’s door without incident, lowered himself inside, and slipped the keys into the ignition.
The Corolla’s engine started, then purred as it waited to be engaged. Bradshaw scanned the lot again. He still couldn’t put his finger on what put him on edge. He gave each car another close look, but none stood out. Bradshaw inhaled through his nose and opted to forego his seatbelt. If the feeling became a premonition, mobility was worth the increased risk.
Bradshaw shifted into drive and slowly rolled forward. His head traversed laterally as he watched the vehicles. When he was halfway to the lot’s exit, movement caught the corner of his right eye. A Jeep with tinted windows roared to life. One of the windows lowered, and Bradshaw caught a glimpse of a rifle barrel.
He instinctively slammed his foot on the gas. The enemy Jeep’s thundered forward, its LED lights switching on in an attempt to blind Bradshaw. He torqued the wheel hard left and brought the front driver’s side tire up on the curb. The Jeep nicked the Corolla’s fender, but fell short of effecting a spin-out. Bradshaw spun the wheel right to straighten his vehicle, raced towards Broadway, and hooked a hard right.
A trio of gunshots punctured the rear windshield, flew within inches of Bradshaw, and ripped through the front. Bradshaw gripped the wheel tight and ducked in his seat, his foot locked in place on the gas. In his rearview mirror, he saw the Jeep had recovered from the turn sooner than he expected and was bearing down on him.
“Fuck!” he shouted. As soon as he cleared the adjacent property, The Habit Burger Grill, Bradshaw turned hard right again, guiding the Corolla onto an unnamed side street. He raced past the burger restaurant, flew by Broadway Apartments on his left, then coasted as he executed a hard right onto 10th Street. Bradshaw pushed the Corolla eastbound. Low-rent houses blurred together as he merged with Chantilly Drive and swerved onto 9th Street. Inbound bullets continued to nip the air around him, narrowly missing his flesh.
Bradshaw took 9th until it intersected with Sahuara Avenue, then hooked a hard right. He gunned the Corolla until he was just north of Burns Street. He spun the Corolla 90º and threw it in park to create a hasty roadblock. Bradshaw thumbed the trunk button, then sprinted from the driver’s seat to the vehicle’s rear. He threw the trunk open, then lifted his keys to find the one he needed.
An ominous roar announced the Jeep’s arrival on Sahuara Avenue. Bradshaw kept focused on his task, slipping the appropriate key into the lock and popping open the trunk safe. Inside were a BCM Recce 16 rifle and an HSP D3CR Micro chest rig that held three PMAGs. He hurriedly slipped into the chest rig and grabbed the rifle. The Aimpoint Micro T-2 red dot optic on the lower 1/3rd cowitness riser was already turned onto a low but visible setting.
Bradshaw racked the charging handle to chamber a round, shouldered the Recce 16, and spun to his left to address the oncoming threat. The Jeep had closed to within 100 feet. His mind assessed the battlespace in the span of seconds: clear foreground between me and the target. Background is a commercial/residential mix. Right limit are the houses. Gunfire should keep the civvies indoors and low. Left limit is an unimproved lot, fenced off.
He trained the red dot on where he estimated was the driver’s center mass, flicked the selector switch to Fire, and squeezed the trigger as quickly as his finger would move. A shrill ringing filled Bradshaw’s ears, brought on by the shrill reports of the .223cal rounds. The Jeep swerved hard towards the unimproved lot, hit the curb, and slowed to a stop.
The Jeep’s doors swung open, and Bradshaw scrambled around the trunk, taking cover behind the rear tire. Return gunfire filled the air, a mixture of 5.56mm and 7.62x39mm rounds constituting the lead swarm. Bradshaw lowered himself to his side, digging the stock into the pocket of his shoulder as he peered past the Corolla’s underbelly. He could make out the faint outline of a leg. Bradshaw took a deep breath, holding the rifle as steady as possible. On the exhale, his finger took up slack on the trigger. When it broke, the rifle’s muted recoil caught him off-guard, and he was rewarded with a yelp as his target fell to the street. Bradshaw quickly took up the man’s chest in his sights and burned through the rest of the magazine, the hollow-point .223 rounds tearing through bone, lung, and heart.
Bradshaw scrambled to a crouched position and hustled to the front wheel, taking cover behind the engine block. Rounds tore through the Corolla’s fiberglass body and cut through the air where Bradshaw had been moments earlier. He fingered the magazine release to drop the spent box from the rifle and fetched a fresh replacement from his chest rig. Once the new magazine was slapped hard from the bottom to ensure it was properly seated in the well, Bradshaw thumbed the bolt catch and chambered a round.
Back in the fight, Bradshaw thought as he rose and turned to face the threat. A thin man had been attempting to flank him from the right. Bradshaw picked up the movement, drove the gun until the dot rested just beneath
his throat, and fired off a five-round salvo that found its mark. The flanker stumbled a few steps before crashing hard with the asphalt, his AR clattering from his lifeless hands.
A 7.62x39mm round announced its passage near Bradshaw’s head with a deafening crack. He instinctively ducked after the fact and crawled to the hood. After a series of preparatory breaths to ready himself, Bradshaw leaned around the corner, the new target’s chest taking up his sights. As his finger pulled the trigger to the rear, the target dropped to the ground. The round missed him by fractions of an inch. A moment later, the last man peeked from behind the Jeep, his AK held at a high port. Bradshaw immediately recognized his face, and an otherworldly cry flew from his lips.
“Gerald!”
The Russian immediately spun and bolted for the unimproved lot’s high grass, slipping through a gap in the fence. With a snarl, Bradshaw shouldered the rifle and fired, his teeth bared as he expended the remnants of the magazine. As he prepared to give chase, the ringing in his ears subsided just enough to make out emergency sirens getting louder. The wail cut through Bradshaw’s rage haze, and the situation’s gravity hit him in full.
Bradshaw immediately unslung the rifle, set it on the ground, then removed the chest rig and dropped it. He walked forward 10 paces, lowered himself to his knees, and interlaced his fingers behind his head. The wait wasn’t long. Ten seconds later, a Tucson Police black-and-white swerved around the corner, its light bar ablaze and siren blaring. A second squad car was only seconds behind. Both black-and-whites skidded to a halt several yards from Bradshaw.
The first officer leapt out of the car, his light-equipped Glock 22 drawn and trained on Bradshaw. “Do not move!” he bellowed.
“Yes, sir,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. Bradshaw knew there was no use to explaining the situation at that moment.
The officer waited for the others to dismount and move to his position. When they were set, the first responding officer said, “Cover me.” One officer hung back, while the lead and his backup advanced on Bradshaw. The backup moved off to Bradshaw’s right, setting up an L-shaped field of fire.
As the lead officer reached Bradshaw, he slipped his Glock into his holster, then reached to the back of his duty belt for a pair of Peerless cuffs. The officer stepped behind Bradshaw, fastened a cuff to his left wrist, then rotated his hands off of his head and to the small of his back. When the second handcuff was secured, the officer grabbed Bradshaw by his wrist and elbow.
“Stand up,” he ordered. When Bradshaw stood, he asked, “You have any other weapons?”
“Pistols, right hip and left hip,” Bradshaw said. “Spare magazines, left hip. Folding knife, right pocket. Multitool, left pocket.”
The officer took a deep breath, then said, “Don’t move.” Expertly, he frisked Bradshaw, removing each of his weapons as he went. Once Bradshaw was disarmed, he said, “Let’s go.”
Bradshaw complied with the officer and moved to the first squad car. When they reached the back door, the officer put a hand on Bradshaw’s head to ensure he wouldn’t collide with the doorframe as he lowered him inside. The door was slammed shut. Bradshaw heard the radio traffic from the dash radio.
“5-Paul-11 to Dispatch. I’ve got one in custody, at least two DOA. I need EMS, Crime Scene, and detectives. Code 2.”
A calm male voice replied, “Dispatch copies, 5-Paul-11, dispatching EMS and Crime Scene.”
Bradshaw glanced out the window to the heavily vegetated lot where “Gerald” had fled. His hands balled into fists as he nodded slowly.
Next time, you’re not walking away, motherfucker.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tucson, Arizona
6 September 2018
21:40 hours Tango (7 September 04:40 hours Zulu)
Merkulov had ditched the N-PAP in the empty lot’s high grass when he’d heard the sirens growing in crescendo. Bradshaw had recognized him. He had been prepared to retreat deeper into the lot to draw Bradshaw in and finish him off, but the arrival of law enforcement had nixed that. That was both a blessing and a curse: their arrival gave Merkulov space and time to escape, but there was a solid chance Bradshaw would walk and continue to be a nuisance.
After his retreat through the brush, Merkulov had looped around and made his way to the nearby Best Buy parking lot. He’d made a phone call, and now he waited, hoping that lot security didn’t get curious and call the police. Merkulov kept to the shadows and waited patiently. He patted himself on the back for wearing gloves, since the N-PAP would be free of his fingerprints when it was eventually discovered and turned in to the police.
Nearly an hour passed before the blue Ford Expedition pulled into the parking lot. Merkulov recognized the vehicle, rose from his crouched position, and immediately marched towards it. The Expedition pulled up alongside the curb, and Merkulov heard the auto-locks disengage as he approached. He climbed inside, shut the door, and looked over to Bill Pfarrer.
“Let’s go,” Merkulov said as he buckled up.
Bill Pfarrer guided the Expedition back towards Broadway. “What the fuck happened, Mark?” he rasped.
“Bradshaw’s more talented than I gave him credit for,” Merkulov admitted. “He sensed something was wrong in the parking lot. We didn’t gun the engine or turn on the lights until the last second, and when we tried to ram him, he evaded. We gave chase, and he lured us into an ambush. He had a trunk gun and ammo to match.”
“Jesus,” Pfarrer growled. “They’re dead?”
“Dan, Ray, and Kris,” Merkulov confirmed.
“Kris is an employee,” Pfarrer said. “First, Ricky, and now Kris. Factor in the men who died in Florence that have a connection to the group…” He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Fuck!”
“What do you want to do now?” Merkulov asked as he rubbed his temples.
Pfarrer inhaled deeply as he gripped the steering wheel. “We can’t do anything. We’ve already brought too much heat down on the group as is. We have to lay low. Might even have to let a couple of opportunities pass us up.”
Merkulov said nothing, but internally, he fumed. The mission was in jeopardy. Merkulov’s entire reason for recommending the WRM in the first place was that all signs indicated they were highly active and incredibly violent, which were the perfect combination for the chosen mission. If Pfarrer was getting cold feet, he and his group were useless.
Perhaps it should be over, he mused. Let things calm down. Start up in another city. Get the spark going elsewhere.
Merkulov was suddenly cognizant of the jagged scar on his chest. He gritted his teeth and thought about the man whom he was certain was responsible.
Ivan Dillonovich Bradshaw. Disgraced Army Ranger. Private investigator who kept poking his nose where it didn’t belong. The man that nearly killed me. No…no, there is no letting this calm down.
“Perhaps we leave Bradshaw alone,” Merkulov said. “Keep things low profile. But there’s absolutely no reason to let opportunities pass…if we find the right one.”
“Except another ‘right’ one hasn’t arisen,” Pfarrer said as he pulled to the red light at the intersection of Alvernon.
“One will,” Merkulov said confidently. “The liberasts and multiculturalists are growing bolder, both in DC and at the local level. You know this as well as I do.”
Pfarrer let out a low sigh. Merkulov could almost hear the WRM leader’s internal machinations as he mulled over the thought. He had banked on the headlines keeping Pfarrer’s head in the game, and there was no shortage of fodder.
A major athletic footwear company endorsing an uppity black nationalist and former gridiron player who made his disdain for anything white, capitalist, or wearing a badge well known.
A black senator engaged in political showmanship in an attempt to disgrace a white Supreme Court candidate.
A senior member of the administration writing an op-ed to the New York Times, claiming that they and many others were actively working to undermine the Presid
ent’s agenda.
The President’s former campaign manager being found guilty of trumped-up charges in a politically motivated kangaroo court.
Merkulov took a shot at how well he had predicted Pfarrer’s stream of consciousness. “Make no mistake about it. The mud people are on the offensive. They reeled back from our victory and have thrown their all behind reversing it and reinstating their world order. We need something to galvanize our race, a subconscious call to arms to assert our dominance and purify this nation.”
Pfarrer’s eyes glazed over as he nodded slowly. “You’re right, Mark,” he said. “Still…we need to be careful.”
“And we will be,” Merkulov assured him. “I just don’t want you to think we have to let the enemy dictate our actions.”
“You’re right,” Pfarrer reaffirmed. “Put out some feelers. Maybe we can find something that will reverse our recent misfortune.”
Merkulov nodded dutifully. “You’ve got it.” He was determined to complete his mission and fire the shots that would plunge the hedonist Americans into chaos.
If he was lucky, that mission would give him another chance to put a bullet in John Bradshaw and lay that particular demon to rest.
Bradshaw’s narrative was easily corroborated. Several eyewitnesses at Longhorn had seen the Jeep attempt to ram his car in the parking lot. He still had loaded magazines in the HSP chest rig, and the crime scene techs matched the ammo to the expended .223 brass. The positions of Bradshaw’s shell casings lined up with his walkthrough of the shootout. Those two facts verified the presence of four other shooters. The closer was when a uniform emerged from the brush, holding up a folding stock AK-type rifle.
Fault Lines Page 24
