As if things haven’t been fucked up enough by a persistent private detective, Merkulov thought as he pulled the rental Volkswagen Jetta into the parking spot. The FBI would kill to uncover an ongoing active measure.
Shimogamo was the designated meeting place. It was a Japanese restaurant located in a commercial center. Merkulov eyed the front door as he disembarked from the Jetta. He wore a subdued green polo shirt, khaki slacks, and brown leather moccasins, giving the appearance of a laid-back businessman. He removed his Ray-Ban aviators and hooked them on the edge of his collar as he walked inside.
The restaurant’s interior was aesthetically pleasing in a cozily spartan fashion. Wall décor was minimal, the tables were made of black lacquered marble, and the hardwood floors still maintained the fresh gleam from being waxed and buffed. Behind the bar, the Japanese itamae wore his signature uniform and was working on constructing a fresh sushi roll.
Gradenko was seated in a corner booth immediately to the right of the doorway. Merkulov glanced both ways before he approached. The GRU colonel was also dressed casually: button-down shirt, slacks, and Oxfords. Rectangular eyeglasses rested on the bridge of his nose. In his hand, he held a copy of the Wall Street Journal, perusing the editorial section. On the table was a half-finished Philly roll, another full roll, and two small dishes that were full of a light brown liquid.
As Merkulov sat, Gradenko picked up a piece of sushi with his chopsticks and dipped it in the sauce. “Did you know that most ‘wasabi’ in the United States is actually colored horseradish?” he said by way of greeting.
Merkulov shook his head. “I did not.”
“It’s true,” Gradenko said. “Wasabi really only grows in Japan. To import it means that only the top-dollar, five-star sushi bars carry it. Everywhere else, they rely on the consumer’s ignorance.” He lifted the piece of sushi to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. A second later, he shook his head briskly and grunted. “It’s basically the same effect, though. Both wasabi and horseradish contain the same chemical that burns your sinuses.”
“Fascinating,” Merkulov said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Doesn’t explain why you called this meeting.”
Gradenko gave Merkulov a warning glance. “Eat. We will talk over sake.”
Merkulov did not like Japanese food. He barely tolerated American cuisine. The Motherland’s cuisine was what his palette preferred, particularly buckwheat kasha with butter, salt, and sugar; sturgeon solyanka with lemon juice; and pelmeni dumplings filled with ground sturgeon and topped with horseradish. Merkulov had thankfully adapted to coffee during his service with the 700th Special Purpose Detachment, as it would have been a sharper adjustment period to how Americans either forsook tea for coffee, or absolutely ruined tea when they drank it.
After a moment, Merkulov picked up a piece of sushi, dipped it in the sauce, and took a bite. He immediately tasted soy sauce, smoked salmon, and cream cheese. A moment later, the “wasabi’s” burn assaulted his nose and eyes. Merkulov looked to the food and reconsidered it.
“Not bad,” he finally allowed.
Gradenko nodded as he finished the last piece of his roll. On cue, a waitress brought two glasses of futū-shu sake. Merkulov eyed it as he worked on his Philly roll, while Gradenko took his glass and sipped on it. A few minutes later, Merkulov finished his sushi, then tasted his sake. His face twisted in disgust as he set the glass down.
“How can you drink that swill, sir?” Merkulov asked.
“You need to expand your horizons,” Gradenko said.
You’re sounding like a liberast, Merkulov had the good sense not to say aloud. “Now may I ask the purpose of the meeting?”
Gradenko took another sip of the sake then cleared his throat. “You need to forget this Bradshaw business.”
Merkulov’s eyes widened. “Sir, he’s dangerously close to compromising my mission.”
“No,” Gradenko said. “You are dangerously close to compromising your mission with your obsession. Your attempts to interdict him have failed. Leave him be.”
“The man is skilled,” Merkulov said. “As an amateur investigator, he’s managed to profile and single out a weak link within the organization. In combat…well. I witnessed him eliminate three well-trained men in a matter of seconds.”
“That’s why you need to leave him be,” Gradenko said. “There are other matters that require your attention.”
“Such as?”
Gradenko reached into his pocket for his HTC U11 smartphone. He unlocked it, then accessed a burner Twitter account he maintained to monitor social media accounts of interest. After a few seconds, he found the Tweet in question and extended the phone to Merkulov.
Rally for Humanity! September 14th, starting at noon! Tempe Beach Park! Guest speaker: Gabriela Rivera! #RallyForHumanity #RallyForDecency #BlueWave
Merkulov looked up from the phone. “She’s poking her head out again.”
“Yes,” Gradenko said. “Tensions are higher now than they were on the first attempt. This is best opportunity to ignite the powder keg.”
Merkulov glanced off to the side as he contemplated the possibilities. “Bradshaw’s under contract to Rivera. He’ll be there.”
Gradenko lowered his voice to a menacing depth. “Kazimir Mikhailovich, look at me.” Merkulov forced his eyes to meet Gradenko’s. “Forget. Bradshaw. Focus on the mission. Kill Gabriela Rivera. Plunge the nation into chaos. What’s more important: pushing the Americans to tear each other apart, or mending your wounded pride?”
Merkulov maintained his composure through sheer force of will. Were anybody other than his handler to say those words, Merkulov would have carved out their innards. Instead, he forced a smile and a nod.
“You’re correct, Tovarisch Polkóvnik. Killing Rivera is the priority.”
“Good,” Gradenko said. “That is why I delivered the message personally. She is now a national-level target. I need your focus on the task at hand.”
“Yes, sir,” Merkulov said quietly. Without another word, he rose from the table. What he didn’t mention to Gradenko was that if Bradshaw was at the rally, no national level target would keep him from his due reprisal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Marana, Arizona
12 September 2018
18:05 hours Tango (13 September 01:05 hours Zulu)
Bill Pfarrer had taken the day off. He left the company’s operations to his vice president and chief operations officer, a white man in good standing who was purposefully unaffiliated with the Movement. Jennifer and he had excused the children from school and spent the day hiking Mount Lemmon. They had lunch at the Cookie Cabin in Summerhaven, took several photos, then hiked back down. Pfarrer’s youngest children, Arielle and Christopher, were set up with a trip to an alpaca farm between Marana and Red Rock, followed with a sleepover with family friends whom would ferry them to school the next day. His oldest, Trevor, was allowed to spend the night with a school friend.
That left Pfarrer and Jennifer with the house to themselves. They made feverish love, clinging to each other with abandon, seeking to commit each other’s feel, scent, and taste to eternal memory. After the first round of intimacy, they showered together, which led to a second. Spent, they dried each other off, donned robes, and took up residence on the balcony just in time to watch the sunset.
Jennifer sat in Pfarrer’s lap, her head on his chest. She could hear the steady beating of his heart, feel the rise and fall of his chest. Pfarrer’s fingers slowly ran through Jennifer’s hair as he basked in her body’s warmth. A stern, determined expression adorned his face as his eyes scanned the horizon. Streaks of orange stained the cobalt firmament to produce a breathtaking image that no photograph could adequately capture.
A sigh fell from Pfarrer’s lips. Jennifer remained silent. She knew when her husband had something on his mind and that he would open up to her when he was ready. That ability to sense his internal conflict was part of what endeared her to him. When Pfarrer sighed a second ti
me, Jennifer knew he was on the verge of speaking. A moment later, he proved her intuition correct.
“I’m headed to the ranch tonight,” he said. “I won’t be back until after Friday.”
Jennifer nodded in his lap. “I figured, darling.”
Pfarrer shook his head. “I don’t like that it’s come to this.” He looked down at her. “I don’t want to take these risks.”
“You wouldn’t take them if they weren’t necessary,” Jennifer said with another nod.
A scowl developed on Pfarrer’s face. “These…” He struggled to find the right word. “These savages look at you, me, our children…they’re determined to erase us from existence. We can either draw a line in the sand, defend what is ours, or we can allow the animals to overrun us.” He shook his head. “There’s no choice.”
“And that’s part of why I love you,” Jennifer said. “You’re a fighter. You put yourself on the line for your family, to secure our existence.” She looked out to the skyline. “The world has gone mad. Men pretending to be women, women pretending to be men, unchecked immigration…”
“Yeah,” Pfarrer said quietly. “It just feels like I’m abandoning my family.” He sighed again. “I mean, what if they win? What if I’m murdered or imprisoned?”
Jennifer looked back to him. “You’re not abandoning us, William.” She reached up to caress his face. “I love you. I don’t want to lose you, but I know what you’re doing must be done. You’re doing it for me. You’re doing it for our children.” A mixture of worry and gratitude bled into her gaze. “Without men like you, we would be left at the mercy of the Jews and savages.”
A tear trickled down Pfarrer’s cheek as he leaned down and kissed Jennifer. “Your understanding makes you the most amazing woman I’ve ever known.”
Jennifer smiled mischievously as she brushed the errant tear away with her thumb, then pulled him in for another kiss, this one longer and more intense. She felt him stirring beneath her and knew the kiss had had its desired effect. Jennifer sat up, straddled him, and wrapped her arms around him. Their tongues met and courted, and they clung to each other with the knowledge that their future was uncertain.
Tucson, Arizona
12 September 2018
21:25 hours Tango (13 September 04:25 hours Zulu)
Bradshaw sluggishly crossed his apartment’s threshold and locked the door behind him. He doffed his jacket, made his way to the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of water. After that, he trudged to his futon, plopped down, and leaned his head back. A ragged exhale fell from his lips.
The past five days had been some of the hardest he’d worked since the Regiment. His weekend was spent in Phoenix, working with the home office to conduct site reconnaissance and formulate a tentative plan ahead of the rally. The one upside to that was that he’d gotten some face time with Rick Dalton on Saturday evening. Bradshaw used that opportunity to bring Dalton up to speed on the shooting and Hawthorne potentially surveilling him. Dalton had promised to investigate to the best of his ability, but made no promises as to results. His query had to be done carefully to avoid drawing Hawthorne’s ire.
Upon returning to Tucson, Bradshaw’s standard 11-hour shifts were extended by another three hours each day. He spent time at the office, coordinating the plan with Dominguez and the Phoenix branch. Bradshaw would leave the office around 21:00, get home at about 21:20, and try his best to be asleep by 22:00.
The rest remained the same: up by 04:00, at the gym by 04:30, showered and changed by 06:30, and at Rivera’s home by 07:00. Things had picked up around the American Dream Foundation’s offices, as well: calls with various interest groups looking to represent at the rally, several pressers with mainstream and blogger outlets via Skype, and prep for several upcoming cases. Bradshaw could tell that she was also running on fumes. More than once, they shared fatigued expressions and noted the bags under each other’s eyes.
With how busy he’d been, even without the possibility of Hawthorne tracking him, Bradshaw doubted he would have conducted much reconnaissance. His off-the-books investigation was strictly on recreational time. He refused to allow it to compromise his work. That the task at hand would likely bring the Russian to him both made pausing the investigation palatable and left him worried.
Bradshaw booted up his laptop and began reviewing Friday’s action plan in earnest. The Army had made him a details man, so he would have reviewed concept of operations, regardless of the principal. Still, he would be lying if he admitted there was not a bit more enthusiasm knowing that Rivera was the client. They had developed a rapport, and she was certainly the person he could tolerate the most post-Army, her politics notwithstanding. Rivera’s natural friendliness and her passion for her work were certainly qualities he could appreciate, and she hadn’t offered trite platitudes when he’d spoken with her about Logan Fox.
Hold on, Bradshaw told himself. You’re getting too attached. Put her out of your mind and focus.
He rubbed his temples. “You really need to go get laid, Jack,” he grumbled under his breath. Bradshaw shook his head briskly, cracked open the bottle of water, and took a sip. He set the water on the coffee table and reached for his trackpad. In his peripherals, he noticed the cursor hovered over the Chrome browser icon.
Hmm. Haven’t checked that in a bit, he thought. What the hell. Bradshaw double-clicked and pulled up a new browser window. He dug his notepad out of his suit jacket and searched for his notes from his conversation with the mystery hacker. Bradshaw logged into the Gmail account. The first thing he saw was that the drafts folder showed six emails that had been saved for later.
Bradshaw clicked on the folder. He started at the earliest draft and worked his way up. Each one was addressed to what Bradshaw assumed was a dummy account, and possessed a screen capture of the Spark website’s login information. He scrolled through the first five and saw they were in the usual locations. Marana is Joe’s, Oro Valley’s the Russian’s pad.
The sixth email widened Bradshaw’s eyes. That one showed access originating in Vail. A series of logins from that location began the day that the rally was announced. His mind raced to compute what had triggered the location shift. It took a moment before he remembered where he had last heard Vail mentioned in regards to his investigation.
Bradshaw returned to the desktop and found the Ricky Peters video file. He brought it up in Windows Media Player, then fast-forwarded near the end. When he arrived at the relevant section, Bradshaw let the video play.
“Any other properties he owns that you know about?” Bradshaw heard himself ask from off-camera.
Peters looked as if he bit into a lemon as he searched his memory. “Owns his house. Owns Joe’s. Owns the Express truck lot. There is a bit of property he owns down in Vail.”
“Oh?”
Peters gave the camera a slow nod. “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 hit pause and rubbed his cheeks and lips. “Holy shit.” The pieces fit. He scrambled for his Kyocera phone, flipped it open, and dialed. Dominguez picked up on the second ringtone.
“I’d have thought you’d be sick of talking to me by now,” Dominguez said by way of greeting.
“I have to take a sick day,” Bradshaw said. “Personal emergency.”
Dominguez exhaled audibly. “Jack…”
“I’ll be good for the rally,” Bradshaw promised. “I just need to take a day. DJ’s back in the rotation. He can take my shift.” When Dominguez said nothing, Bradshaw added, “Sir, if I’ve ever needed you to trust me, it’s right now.”
Five seconds of silence passed. Finally, Dominguez said, “I’ll make the change. Don’t make me regret this.”
“Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said. He hung up the phone, the previous weariness eliminated by the sudden adrenaline shot. Bradshaw leapt to his feet and
made for his walk-in closet. His mind reviewed the kit he would need, then began to assemble the various pieces.
If he was right, he’d be able to stop the WRM’s next move in its tracks. If he were wrong but did his job properly, all he lost was a sick day.
If he were wrong and he screwed up, the chances were that he wouldn’t be around to beat himself up over it.
Gia Simmons neé Miranda was curled up in bed beside her husband. Peace and contentment reigned over her countenance, with the hint of a smile on her full lips. Gia’s leg was draped across her husband’s waist, her arm on his chest, her head nuzzled into the pocket of his shoulder. Raven locks fell over her left eye and chin.
DJ Simmons was spent from a day full of paperwork, but the children had gone to bed early and stayed down long enough for them to enjoy themselves in a fashion rarely afforded to parents in custody of four children. DJ and Gia had ordered Chinese from GrubHub and caught up on Luke Cage, which they’d been meaning to do once their schedules lined up. After dinner and Netflix, they’d retreated to bed for intimacy and slumber.
As a younger man, Simmons chased what he termed “the shiny,” the conventionally beautiful women that could grace magazine covers. His being a smooth talker and a star collegiate athlete opened the doors for him to pursue as much of “the shiny” as he could handle.
Simmons’s world came crashing down when he suffered an Achilles tear that not only ended his football prospects, but also resulted in UCLA refusing to honor the remainder of his scholarship. That’s when he found himself entering the security world. The star status was mostly gone, but he still had his silver tongue. Experience taught him that his courtship selection process was flawed.
It took him several years and four children out of wedlock to learn two things. The first was that just because a lady looked good on his arm or brought him physical pleasure did not make her a good companion. The second was that he had nobody to blame but himself for his shallow standards. Simmons learned he needed to do better as a man.
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