Tucson Police had pulled Bradshaw from the squad car and removed his restraints. He still wasn’t free to depart the scene, but he was given back his cell phone. Bradshaw immediately made two phone calls: one to his insurance company’s emergency assistance hotline to have his vehicle towed and assessed, and one to Miguel Dominguez to come down to the crime scene for a full explanation.
As he awaited Dominguez’s arrival, Bradshaw spotted an unmarked black SUV parked at the edge of the scene. Two figures leaned against the ram bar mounted across the grill. He focused and realized that one of them was Jeremy Hawthorne. The second man was about the same height, black, and muscular. Hawthorne smiled and waved.
A chill raced down Bradshaw’s spine. Have they been following me? While he couldn’t discount the possibility that they just arrived after seeing his name on the blotter, it was also a possibility they had him under surveillance. Bradshaw thought he had ruled them out when the GPS devices were traced back to “Gerald,” and he mentally kicked himself for the oversight.
Okay, Bradshaw thought. In-depth SDRs everywhere I go from here on out, and let Gabs know they were here. She’ll read ICE the riot act.
Dominguez arrived on-scene around the time that the uniforms found the AK. He talked to the night shift detective, somebody with whom Dominguez had history, judging from their body language. Eventually, Dominguez made his way over to Bradshaw and pulled him aside, close enough to the squad car to not warrant a reaction but far enough to be out of earshot.
“I already know what happened,” Dominguez said. “Damn fine shooting.”
Bradshaw nodded. He stood at ease. “Yes, sir.”
“Having said that…” Dominguez’s face darkened. “They wouldn’t be trying to murder you if you hadn’t been trying to get your Jeb Shaw on.”
Or if I wasn’t onto something, Bradshaw didn’t say. He had the good sense to accept his ass chewing without protest. “Yes, sir.”
“And her being your legal counsel after that run-in with ICE or whatever the fuck that guy was the other day?” Dominguez glanced to where Hawthorne and his companion stood, then looked back to Bradshaw and shook his head. “This is real borderline, Jack. You’ve gotta just stick to the job and nothing more.”
“Wilco, sir.”
“If you wanna be a cop, you oughta drop an application,” Dominguez said. “I’ve got connects here, Phoenix, most of the county agencies…I know you have your reasons for going private, but you’ve obviously got solid investigative instincts. Maybe the private side isn’t for you.”
“I appreciate that, sir, but I like my current posting,” Bradshaw lied. “Just the job. Nothing more, sir.”
Dominguez nodded, and clapped Bradshaw on the shoulder. He then looked at Bradshaw’s Corolla, perforated by bullets. Dominguez cringed and said, “You need a ride home, Jack?”
“Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said. “Just need to get my pistol and the rest of my gear back.”
“Shouldn’t be much longer,” Dominguez said. “You didn’t use the pistol in the gunfight, did you?”
Bradshaw shook his head. “Purely a long gun affair, sir.”
“Good,” Dominguez said. “I can wait.”
“If it’s any inconvenience, sir—”
“Nah.” Dominguez stuck his hands in his pockets and smiled at Bradshaw. “You know…I did my 20 with the department. I don’t regret retiring. I make more money at First Guard when combined with my pension. But, I’ll tell you this, Jack. I sure as shit miss being around detectives and uniforms at work.” When Bradshaw gave Dominguez a perplexed look, he added, “I don’t miss the crime scenes themselves. I’ve seen some shit that I’ll carry the rest of my days. I just miss the overall atmosphere.”
“Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said in the absence of a better response.
“Besides, this crime scene isn’t so bad,” Dominguez said. “Three shitheads no longer thieving oxygen with their garbage-ass ideology…I’d almost consider it a public service.”
Bradshaw wasn’t sure how to answer that comment. Instead, he found himself wishing he had a cigarette. He only smoked when he drank socially or when things grew abnormally stressful, and that night qualified for the latter in spades.
Hawthorne watched as Dominguez and Bradshaw got in the same car and departed the crime scene. Beside him, his second-in-command clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“Could’ve sworn the white boys had him dead to rights,” Derrick Womack said. “They sure as shit brought enough artillery.”
“Rangers know how to fight,” Hawthorne said. “That was basic react to ambush: push through the kill zone, reach a defensible point, and mad minute until the enemy’s dead or you’ve got enough space to break contact.”
“I guess,” Womack said. “Though I’d like to see him try some shit like that in West Bawlmore. Sheeeeeeeit.”
Hawthorne suppressed a chuckle. Womack had been born in Jamaica, Queens, and split his childhood between South Suicide and West Baltimore. The Navy was Womack’s way out of both hoods. He spent a few years as a gunner’s mate, then proceeded to BUD/S, where he’d crossed paths with Hawthorne. The two became brothers through combat. Womack stayed in the Navy long enough to catch one more deployment before he departed for the DEA. He’d been posted in Detroit and Kansas City before returning home to Baltimore, where he’d been working when Hawthorne tapped him for the task force.
“I see you tryna laugh,” Womack said.
“You just sound like you’re a tatted-up, muscled-out Clay Davis,” Hawthorne said. “Sheeeeeeeit.” Hawthorne couldn’t hold back the laugh any longer.
“Eat shit, Jer,” Womack said with a grin. The moment passed. “So, Bradshaw’s still alive. What do we do now?”
Hawthorne scratched his chin as he contemplated his answer. With a prolonged exhale, he said, “We’ll keep watching. Maybe he’ll wise up. Or, maybe social Darwinism will catch up with him.”
Dominguez dropped Bradshaw off at his apartment complex 45 minutes later. He offered Bradshaw the day off to recuperate. Bradshaw appreciated the gesture, but declined and assured Dominguez that he would be on post, bright and early.
Bradshaw conducted yet another bug sweep the moment he entered. He still wasn’t confident that the Russian was too cautious to risk breaking and entering. Hawthorne was another factor to consider. Bradshaw was certain Hawthorne lacked the necessary threshold for a proper FISA warrant, but for all he knew, the ICE agent might have decided to wander off of the reservation.
The apartment was clean. Bradshaw stripped then entered the bathroom. He turned on the sink faucet and splashed water over his face. Bradshaw looked in the mirror. The man he saw was the same one he’d seen ever since he’d left the Army. It was a man not equipped for anything other than war, but who was struggling his damnedest to make it anyway.
They’re right, Bradshaw said internally to the man in the mirror. You’re not an investigator. You’re not law enforcement. You’ve pretended for so long. Almost convinced yourself otherwise.
What are you, then?
Bradshaw inhaled deeply through his nose, then knelt and retrieved his Wahl clippers from beneath the sink. He plugged them in and thumbed the power switch. The clippers emitted a loud clack, followed by a steady purr as the blades vibrated. Bradshaw raised the clippers and let them hover at the corner of his mustache, almost as if asking, Is this what you want?
The clippers met hair. Thirty seconds later, the bulk of the mustache was in the sink. Bradshaw collected the discarded hair with a wad of toilet paper, tossed it in his bathroom trash receptacle, then busted out his Gillette razor and Edge shaving cream. His face was lathered up, and he took his time, catching every hair beyond his sideburns.
Bradshaw cleaned both the razor and sink, then ran the faucet again to wash his face. He raised his head and stared at the man in the mirror. That time, he knew the external matched the interior.
You’re a hunter. A predator. A soldier, specially selected and well-trai
ned.
Bradshaw took another deep breath and spoke the words aloud.
“I am a Ranger.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tucson, Arizona
7 September 2018
07:30 hours Tango (14:30 hours Zulu)
Bradshaw gave the posted uniformed guard a perfunctory nod as he marched up the walkway to Rivera’s front door. He knocked three times, and Rivera swung the door open. She wore a periwinkle button-down blouse, slate gray slacks, and a worried expression on her face.
“Mr. Bradshaw, come inside,” she said. “I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bradshaw said.
When the door was closed and they had stepped further into the house, Rivera turned around and threw her arms around Bradshaw. The gesture caught him off guard, but he gradually embraced her in return. They remained motionless, losing themselves in each other’s warmth. After a few moments, Rivera extricated herself and took a step back, her hands clasped above her stomach.
“I saw the news when I woke up this morning,” she said. “They didn’t mention your name, but I just knew. I had a feeling.”
Bradshaw nodded and exhaled. “No new holes in me. I’m okay.”
Rivera pointed to his upper lip and smiled. “You finally shaved.”
He shrugged. “Felt like the thing to do.”
“Long overdue.” She smiled. “Looking like a younger, taller Tom Cruise.”
“Nah. Never felt pretty enough to pass for a fighter pilot.”
“You’re plenty pretty.”
Bradshaw smiled uncomfortably, then yawned. “Didn’t get shit for sleep.”
“I’ll get you some coffee,” Rivera said. As she went into the kitchen, she said over her shoulder, “I hope I wasn’t out of line, giving you a hug. I was worried.”
“It’s fine,” Bradshaw said. He half-smiled. “Just hold off on calling me pretty.” Rivera laughed. Bradshaw’s smile faded as he said, “Hawthorne was at the crime scene.”
Rivera poked her head out of the kitchen, her eyes ablaze. “You’re kidding me.”
Bradshaw shook his head. “Nope. He sat at the periphery, but he wanted me to know I was there. I couldn’t figure out if he’d just picked my name up on the police net or if he’s been surveilling me. If it’s surveillance, then he’s damn good, because I haven’t picked up on it.”
Rivera returned to the kitchen. “I’m gonna mount that motherfucker’s badge on my wall when I’m done with him.”
“Just be careful,” Bradshaw said. “My sources are telling me his task force has got some real juice.”
“I’ve got my own sources,” Rivera said. “I’m gonna start asking around. See exactly what his deal is before I tear him apart.”
“Don’t overextend yourself on my behalf,” Bradshaw said. “You’ve got to focus on your work.”
“Oh? You coming around on your immigration position?”
Bradshaw smirked. “Nah, we’ll probably always agree to disagree there. Still, you’re doing your thing. You owe your full attention to your clients and your movement.”
“That’s fair,” Rivera said as she emerged from the kitchen with a full coffee cup in each hand. “Having said that…I always have time for friends.” Bradshaw looked confused as he took a seat at the table. She caught the look, and her expression faltered. “What is it?”
Bradshaw shrugged as he accepted the coffee. “Usually, friends hang out in social settings, strengthen their bonds. Industry ethics make that functionally impossible.”
“You don’t think our talks are enough?” Rivera asked.
Bradshaw searched for a diplomatic answer. “I don’t have many friends. Don’t make ‘em easily.”
Rivera caught Bradshaw absent-mindedly touching the silver-on-black metallic bracelet on his right wrist. “Is it because you’re afraid of losing them?”
Bradshaw rolled his lips under his teeth and clicked his tongue, his eyes on his mug. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
Rivera took a sip of her coffee and formulated a different approach. “I’ve told you that I grew up in Nogales. Lived with my aunt after I turned 10.”
“I know,” Bradshaw said. “Your parents were deported by INS.” When she gave him a look, he added, “I heard about it from the news.” That wasn’t a complete falsehood: First Guard’s client profiles were compiled almost entirely through open source research.
Rivera nodded, then continued. “They were murdered by the drug cartel before I had a chance to sponsor them and bring them back over here,” Rivera said. “I blame our immigration policy and our drug war as much as I blame the cartels.” She caught herself and glanced down. “I’m sorry, Jack. I don’t mean to get on my soapbox.”
“It’s okay,” Bradshaw said.
“The point is, I was basically on autopilot with my post-graduate studies,” Rivera said. “Being forcibly separated from my parents was traumatic in and of itself. Knowing I would never see them again…all the time lost…” She shook her head slowly. “It was balls-to-the-wall studying, and one day per week where I’d go out, get sloppy drunk, find someone to bring home to fill Schrödinger’s Void.”
Bradshaw arched an eyebrow. “Schrödinger’s Void?”
“I made up the term when I thought about it,” Rivera said. “I wanted to be loved, but the moment somebody got close, I shut them out and pushed them away. Did a lot of people dirty by ghosting on them.”
Bradshaw shook his head slowly. “I’ve actually got the opposite problem.” When Rivera prodded him for elaboration with a look, he said, “Last time I tried picking up a lady was before I took this gig.” He laughed harshly. “She shot me down hard.”
“Bet she’d reconsider without the mustache,” Rivera said with an impish smile.
Bradshaw took a sip of his coffee and cleared his throat. “But I hear you. It can be hard to connect when you’ve lost somebody.”
The smile left Rivera’s face, and her eyes fell once more to the bracelet. She pointed and asked, “Were you close?”
Bradshaw glanced down at the bracelet. “Yeah.”
“Is that why you left the Army?”
“Partially.”
Rivera caught the name on the bracelet. “What was he like? Logan?”
Bradshaw pursed his lips. “The toughest son of a bitch there was. Not one to advertise it. Always had a smile on his face. Handy with any tool you put in his hand. Had a hell of a way with the ladies. A consummate soldier. The embodiment of the Ranger standard.”
“You came up together.”
“We did.” Bradshaw tapped the bracelet with his thumb. “Basic, Airborne, RIP, and Ranger School.”
“RIP?”
“Ranger Indoctrination Program. They call it RASP now. Assessment and Selection. It’s the crucible you have to pass to be admitted to the Regiment.”
“I see.” Rivera sipped on her coffee.
“He made me a better Ranger. The way he died…the way the brass…” Bradshaw caught himself and sipped on his coffee.
“You can tell me,” Rivera assured him.
“I can’t,” Bradshaw said. “The wrong person finds out, and I’m looking at a prison sentence. NDAs and all that.” His mouth locked open and his eyes shifted downward as he deliberated on expansion. “It’s also why I can’t tell you everything about why I’ve gone full-tilt boogie on the WRMs.” Bradshaw met Rivera’s eyes and sighed. “I’m hoping you’ll trust me when I say that everything I’ve done has been in your best interest and in the interest of justice.”
Rivera studied Bradshaw’s body language. Slowly, she gestured her acceptance with a nod. “I believe you. I don’t like not having the full story…but I believe you, Jack.”
“Thank you, Gabs.” Bradshaw finished his coffee and set the cup down on the table. “I’m ready to go when you are.”
“One more thing,” Rivera said. She downed the remainder of her coffee and cleared her throat. “I already spoke with Mr. D
ominguez about it last night. We’re doing a rally next Friday in Phoenix. We’re talking turnout in the thousands. We’re coordinating with Phoenix Police. Mr. Dominguez assured me that between your office and the Phoenix Branch, we’ll have the manpower to cover the security aspect.”
Bradshaw’s face darkened. “I’m not sure that’s advisable, especially in the wake of last night. The WRMs are still active. They might use it to take a shot at you.”
“I’m trusting you not to let that happen,” Rivera said. She leaned back and folded her arms. “I’m not running from these bastards. This is our country, Jack. Not theirs. They don’t get to dictate our actions. I’m going to the rally, period.”
Bradshaw exhaled audibly as he pursed his lips. “Okay. We’ll do the rally, under one condition.”
“What is it?”
“I want you to wear a vest. Rally that big, we definitely can’t bank on getting lucky like we did in Florence.”
Rivera nodded. “For you, I can do that.”
Bradshaw smiled. “Thank you.”
“C’mon,” Rivera said. “Let’s get to the office. We’ve got a long day ahead.”
* * *
Chandler, Arizona
7 September 2018
12:24 hours Tango (19:24 hours Zulu)
Merkulov knew the meeting was urgent and likely bore ill tidings. Gradenko’s usual methodology was to leave any necessary directions coded in the drafts folder of an email account. Information that could not be risked digitally meant a flight to San Francisco for a face-to-face meeting.
For Gradenko to fly to the Phoenix metropolitan area was a massive risk, which meant the information had to be critical. Such a trip meant booking a private flight and smuggling Gradenko out of the city without American counter-intelligence discovering the departure. Anything less would result in the FBI’s Phoenix Field Office being alerted to the rezident’s arrival and the immediate dispatching of surveillance agents. That would lead to Merkulov’s unmasking as a foreign agent and bring undue attention upon the WRM.
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