Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  Simmons hadn’t hunted for Gia, nor had she chased him. He met her through her business, a meal-prep delivery service, when he was looking to improve his nutrition. She had heard his phone sound off with the shattering glass that announced Stone Cold Steve Austin’s arrival during his WWE tenure. That had instantly sparked a conversation, as Gia was a massive fan of the industry. Their first meeting lasted 45 minutes, with reminiscence of matches past and playful debates on which era was greater. It ended with his asking for her number. The ease of conversation, the common interest, and the unnecessity of pretense had drawn him to her.

  Their courtship was slow, as Gia didn’t want to be burned by a player and DJ knew he needed to break old habits to develop lasting bonds. Eventually, the both of them confirmed that their shared attraction was more than skin deep.

  For DJ, it was the way Gia not only listened to his concerns but also offered sound advice without scorn or derision. It was her being her own person with passions she wished to pursue, such as her culinary business, which helped her to accept Simmons’s long hours. She understood his shortcomings, but she wouldn’t tolerate them, nor was she looking to fix something broken. Instead, they built each other up, helped each other to do better as parents, lovers, and friends.

  Those qualities enabled DJ Simmons to tell Gia without hesitation and in complete honesty that she was the most beautiful woman upon which he’d ever laid eyes.

  The Acolyte Protection Agency’s Titantron theme blared through his Samsung Galaxy’s speakers. Simmons sat up a little in bed and adopted a perplexed expression. That was Bradshaw’s assigned ringtone, and he couldn’t think of a legitimate reason why he’d be calling at that time of night. He reached across to the bedside table and grabbed his phone. He noted the voicemail logo at the top of the screen before he accepted the call.

  “Yo.”

  “You remember how I said if I needed your help, things would be really fucked?”

  Simmons sat up straighter and extricated himself from Gia. “Yeah?”

  “I’m pretty sure things are fucked. Gonna need your help to find out.”

  Simmons looked over to Gia. “Do I need to pack the wife and kids?”

  “No,” Bradshaw said. “In fact, it’d probably be helpful if you maintained your normal routine. I am gonna need you to come pick me up.”

  Simmons held the phone in front of his face to check the time, then returned it to his ear. “I’ll be there in 20.”

  “Roger.” Bradshaw killed the line.

  Gia stirred and looked at Simmons. “What is it, papí?” she asked groggily.

  “I’ve gotta do some dirt,” Simmons said as he set the phone down, crawled out of bed, and went for his clothes. “Jack needs some help.”

  Gia picked up the phone and checked the call history. “Okay,” she said. “When will you be back?”

  “Couple of hours, hopefully,” Simmons said. “I’ll let you know, baby.”

  “Mmmkay,” Gia said softly as she settled back into bed. “Be careful. Te quiero, papí.”

  Simmons came around the bed, leaned down, and gave Gia a kiss. “Te quiero tambien, mamí.” He kissed her again, then gathered his clothes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  12 miles south-by-southwest of Vail, Arizona

  12 September 2018

  23:52 hours Tango (13 September 06:52 hours Zulu)

  DJ Simmons pulled his GMC Yukon Denali onto the shoulder of AZ-83 southbound and shifted into park. Beside him, Jack Bradshaw wore only a tan T-shirt, Ranger panties, and shower shoes. In the back were a pair of tough boxes, one oblong and one more square. When Simmons had picked Bradshaw up in front of his apartment, the latter hadn’t elaborated on the situation. Bradshaw merely loaded the boxes in the back, hopped in the front, and instructed Simmons to drive. Simmons wanted to ask Bradshaw what was going on, but he was immersed in his notes written in a green Rite in the Rain leader’s notebook.

  Simmons watched Bradshaw disembark and scrambled after him. The night sky was clear, and the temperature was starting to cool off, but not enough to justify a jacket just yet. Simmons met Bradshaw at the back of the Denali and popped the trunk. Bradshaw opened the square toughbox, and Simmons’s eyes narrowed.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Simmons asked.

  “Ghillie suit,” Bradshaw said tersely as he pulled it from the box and laid it out. The suit used a MultiCam-patterned blouse and trousers as the base. Burlap had been sewn onto the back, and woven into that were strips of tan and light green fabric. Bradshaw stepped away to the nearby brush, grabbed several handfuls of tall straw grass, and returned to the truck.

  “What’s that for?” Simmons asked.

  “Camouflage,” Bradshaw said as he slipped individual straws into the burlap.

  Simmons shrugged. “Looks pretty camouflaged to me.”

  “It’ll do in a pinch. The best ones have actual vegetation from the target location to help further break up one’s silhouette.”

  Simmons waited a beat before he folded his arms and adjusted his stance. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

  “Peters told me about this place a few miles to the west of here. It’s a WRM militia compound. I checked the back trace on the tracker. They’ve been there ever since Gabs announced the rally.”

  Simmons cocked an eyebrow. “Gabs?”

  Bradshaw kicked himself for slipping. “Nothing’s happening between us, dude.”

  Simmons shrugged. “Never said there was.”

  “That’s what you’re insinuating.”

  Simmons knew he’d pressed the issue enough. “They’re tracking your rides. That’s why you needed a lift.”

  Bradshaw’s eyes were locked onto the suit as he worked. “Yep. Don’t want them to know I’m coming.”

  Simmons shifted uncomfortably. “Getting a little proactive here, aren’t we?”

  “Ninety-plus percent of a sniper’s job is observation.”

  Simmons cleared his throat and said, “That isn’t what I asked, brother.”

  Bradshaw locked eyes with Simmons. “I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” he rasped. “All I know is that I need to see if they’re planning to attack the rally.”

  Simmons watched as Bradshaw removed Fox’s KIA bracelet from his right wrist and slipped it into his pocket. He pointed to it and said, “That your buddy?”

  “Yeah.”

  A sigh fell from Simmons’s lips. “I get it. I’m with you, man. What do you want me to do?”

  “You should have received orders from Dominguez to take my shift.”

  Simmons nodded. “I did.”

  Bradshaw looked back to Simmons. “Keep her safe.” He returned to working on the suit. “Pick me up at this grid in 24 hours. Bring a flashlight. I’ll flash three dashes of red light. Respond with four. I’ll know it’s you.”

  “If you’re not here?”

  “Wait 30 minutes. You don’t hear from me then, make up some bullshit and get the police to hit the camp.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  The rest of the time was spent in silence as Bradshaw finished lacing his ghillie suit, his boonie hat, and the back of his MOLLE war belt with straw grass. Bradshaw donned the suit, then slipped on a pair of OD green, calf-high socks and well-worn desert boots. He then broke out a camo paint kit with a mirror and worked on his face. Lower points, such as beneath his eyes, nose, and bottom lip, received lighter colored paint, while higher points—his forehead, cheeks, and the bridge of his nose—were painted darker.

  With the paint applied, Bradshaw donned a headset that allowed him to wear an AN/PVS-14 night vision monocular without a helmet. Once the rig was snug around his head and chin, he put on his boonie hat and a pair of tan Nomex flight gloves. A Garmin GPS was powered up, tested for functionality, and then slipped onto his left wrist. From there, he clipped his war belt around his waist, checked that the Glock 19 was secure in its holster, and then inspected the belt’s remaining accouterments. Bradshaw then
hefted his Tactical Tailor RR550 Malice pack, stepped away from the vehicle, and threw the pack over his head. When it settled on his back, he slipped his arms through the straps and cinched them down.

  Bradshaw stepped back to the vehicle, grabbed the oblong case, and cracked it open. Simmons’s mouth dropped when he saw the contents. The base rifle was a Knight’s Armament Corporation SR-25 E2 CC. Bradshaw had installed a fixed stock in place of the standard adjustable version, and had mounted both a Leupold 3.5-10x daytime scope and an AN/PVS-26 night vision optic to the rifle, in that order. A quick-detach KAC Precision Rifle suppressor was affixed to the barrel. A coyote brown Cerakote job had been applied to each piece of the rifle, making it a near-replica of the M110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System that he had used on several deployments.

  Bradshaw picked up the rifle, slammed a 20-round magazine into the well, and racked the charging handle to chamber a round. He rotated the selector switch to SAFE, turned away from Simmons, and shouldered the rifle to glance down the sights. Bradshaw switched on the PVS-26 scope and was rewarded with a blurry, lime green picture. He raised the rifle a bit more and could see clearer in the distance. Satisfied, he stepped away from the Denali and looked to Simmons.

  “Don’t be doing no stupid shit like getting killed by these dumbass peckerwoods,” Simmons said.

  Bradshaw smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Without another word, he turned, lowered his PVS-14 over his eye, turned it on, and walked into the brush. It was an eight-klick movement to the objective, but the air was cooling and he had at least five solid hours of night left. He was fairly confident he could reach establish an LP/OP overlooking the target before twilight.

  Well, Boy Scout, he thought to himself, let’s see if you’re still good in the woods.

  Bradshaw made good time over the first leg of the march. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he navigated the rolling hills. He kept his head on a swivel as he rucked. He doubted the WRMs would push roving patrols out that far, which was why he pushed the pace harder than he would have downrange. Bradshaw slipped a couple of times during his hill climbs, but he managed to keep from falling outright.

  After the first four klicks, Bradshaw slowed his pace considerably. He would take a step, freeze in place, and look and listen for any sign that the movement had compromised his position. The technique brought his travel speed to a sluggish kilometer per hour, but it was necessary. Bradshaw had learned it in duplicate: once at Sniper, and again at the Reconnaissance & Surveillance Leader’s Course. It was very similar to the movements Bradshaw’s father had described as a point man for a Vietnam-era Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol. The operating climates aside, the major difference between the Bradshaws was that the elder had five men watching his back. The younger Bradshaw felt immensely fatigued, having to maintain 360° security on his own.

  Bradshaw arrived at his initial LP/OP at about 04:15 hours, which gave him between 30 to 45 minutes to get settled in for the day before twilight set in. He deployed the SR-25’s bipod legs and set it on the ground, then shrugged off his ruck and set it beside the rifle. Bradshaw pulled a small E-tool from a pouch mounted to the outside of his ruck, locked the working end at a 90° angle, and started to dig a short fighting position, just enough for him to stash the ruck out of sight and lay down behind the gun. The ghillie suit would do the rest, enabling him to disappear with the surrounding brush.

  At 04:55 hours, Bradshaw collapsed the E-tool, put it away, and set up his equipment. He had brought a full surveillance package with him: a Nikon Aculon rangefinder in desert tan; a Nikon D5300 with lenses and tripod, with all hard plastic pieces cerakoted coyote brown; and a directional microphone that attached to a digital voice recorder. Bradshaw kept the microphone packed away, as he would have to move much closer to the camp in order to eavesdrop. He would cross that bridge if he reached it.

  Once the camera and rangefinder were set up, Bradshaw got down behind his SR-25 and switched on the PVS-26. With the first glimmer of morning light peeking over the horizon, there was just enough ambient illumination to provide a crystal-clear image. What he saw left him with a sense of dread and foreboding.

  The compound was surrounded in double-layer fence that stood about 10 feet tall, with concertina wire adorning the top. There was a makeshift sally port at the front entrance, with guard towers at the apexes. A quick scan of the closest towers revealed there were men posted within with scoped rifles, which brought a chill to Bradshaw’s blood. If they had been scanning his sector while he was setting up, there was a good chance they would have been able to reach out and touch him. There were also roving patrols around the outside, three of them on ATVs.

  Within the compound were a few shipping containers that appeared repurposed for building use. At another end of the complex, a second series of containers seemed configured to be a close-quarter battle training building. The shoot houses were close to a static shooting range. At the far end of the compound were a pair of large Quonset huts.

  This must have cost Pfarrer a pretty penny, Bradshaw thought. He doubted the Russian provided any material support in its development. Moscow wouldn’t want fingerprints that obvious on an act of domestic terrorism. Pfarrer likely funded it through his trucking profits and donations from other WRMs, and assembled it on his own. The WRMs certainly wouldn’t be the first white nationalist group to have their own militia compound, though theirs would definitely rank among the better-constructed.

  Bradshaw reached into a utility pouch on his war belt for a caffeine pill. He popped it, then chased it down with water from the hydration bladder in his ruck. With a deep inhale, he prepared himself for a long recce.

  Shawn Taylor sat at a work table in the ranch’s armory, his hands stained with carbon and grease as he finished work on the product before him. A weapon he’d personally modified had been broken down to identify where it had malfunctioned earlier in the day during full dress rehearsals. It had taken him a couple of hours to find the issue, and a matter of minutes to rectify it.

  Taylor’s hands moved expertly over the pieces as he reassembled the weapon. Once it was complete, he conducted a successful functions check. As he set the weapon down and reached for a rag to clean his hands, Mark Gerald entered the building. Both men wore T-shirts, cargo pants, and hiking boots. Unlike Taylor, Gerald wore a mesh vest that held eight STANAG magazines.

  “Hey, Mark,” Taylor said as he rose from the workbench.

  “Missed you out there,” Gerald said.

  Taylor made his way over to the sink and used the heel of his palm to turn on the water. “I see you’ve been getting your Neil McCauley on.”

  “The vest was an excellent idea,” Gerald said. “Very sturdy construction, too. Been sprinting, rolling, and jumping, and the mags haven’t come loose.”

  Taylor smiled. “Thanks. The Kydex inserts keep the mags in the pouch.” He squirted a dollop of GoJo orange heavy duty cleaner into his palm and scrubbed his hands together. It was liquid sandpaper on the skin, but it managed to cleanse the majority of the grit and grime. Taylor rinsed his hands, shut off the faucet, and reached for some paper towels. “Y’all have any more malfunctions with the guns?”

  “Nope,” Gerald said. “Just the one.”

  “Good. The gas regulator wasn’t mounted properly. This could have been pretty bad. A couple of failures to cycle is definitely preferable to the alternative.”

  Gerald folded his arms. “I’d rather have zero malfunctions.”

  “Me, too,” Taylor said with a smile. He returned to the bench, grabbed the cleaning rag, and wiped the assembled weapon down.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen these weapons before you broke ‘em out,” Gerald said.

  “They’re originally full-sized SIG MCXs,” Taylor explained. “Purchased some pistol-length piston systems, cut down the barrels and rails, modified the trigger sear. The end results are essentially budget full-auto MCX Rattlers.”

  Gerald pursed his lips, perplexed. “Wouldn’t
it have been cheaper to buy MCX pistols?”

  Taylor smiled. “I’ve got a connect that can pick up the weapon and parts wholesale. By doing it this way, I’ve actually saved about $500 per weapon. Also doesn’t hurt that I know what I’m doing. If an amateur tried this, they’d probably blow themselves up.”

  “I see,” Gerald said. “Well, you’ve done a hell of a job.” He patted the modified MCX slung across his chest. “I put about 10,000 rounds through this bad boy this week, and I can count the number of remedial malfunctions on one hand.”

  “Thank you,” Taylor said. He set the weapon down and spun around to face Gerald. “What’s up?”

  “Boss is having a rally after dinner,” Gerald said. “Wants everybody not on guard in attendance.”

  Taylor nodded. “Well, shit, let’s get some chow. What’s on the menu?”

  “Randy Wallace and Pat Sanders brought about 300 pounds of bison meat from their last hunt,” Gerald said. “They’ve been grilling it and making a stew. Should also have corn on the cob and fresh garlic bread. The boss also put up some money to buy a few kegs. Having those trucked in from Tucson as we speak.”

  “Goddamn, that sounds good,” Taylor said. He stood and slung the MCX. “Let’s go. I’m fucking starving.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  13 miles southwest of Vail, Arizona

  13 September 2018

  17:45 hours Tango (14 September 00:45 hours Zulu)

  What Bradshaw had observed over the past 13 hours not only vindicated his mission, it flat out convinced him that Rivera committing to the rally was a horrible idea.

  Once the sun had ascended over the horizon, Bradshaw had broken out his leader’s notebook and started a sector sketch. Using the rangefinder, Bradshaw ascertained the property was about two acres, judging from the width and length of the fence line.