Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  He noticed the arrangement of the static range. A stage was erected at the closer end of the range, with several ballistic dummies. On the ground in front of the stage, a mixture of ballistic dummies and mannequins were densely positioned. Bradshaw saw it for what it was and immediately switched to the Nikon camera, taking several photographs.

  Bradshaw’s fears were confirmed when a group of about 20 men, dressed in civilian clothing and wearing eye and ear protection, made their way to the area and pretended to mingle with the “crowd.” On cue, they unzipped their jackets, produced some sort of short-barreled rifle, and opened fire. Once they were satisfied their target was eliminated, the group dispersed in seemingly pre-assigned routes.

  They learned from last time, Bradshaw thought. Holy shit.

  As they reloaded weapons and set up to rehearse again, Bradshaw got back on the camera and snapped as many pictures of the routine as he could. While the photographs would raise alarm, Bradshaw feared they would fall short of the probable cause necessary to obtain a warrant and raid the compound. The specter of Ruby Ridge and Waco was alive and well, as evidenced by recent, similar standoffs in Nevada and Oregon. No law enforcement agency wanted to be accused of slaughtering citizens, the misdeeds of said citizens be damned.

  Bradshaw made a running observation log. To the best of his ability, he followed the SALUTE format: Size, Activity, Location, Uniform, Time, and Equipment. If he obtained a smoking gun to hand over to law enforcement, his log would prove invaluable as advanced reconnaissance for the assaulting element. Absent that, it would give his executive protection team a solid idea of their opposition at the rally.

  After several rehearsals, the group dispersed. Most of them went to a Quonset hut that Bradshaw assumed was the chow hall. Some disappeared into the Conexes and emerged in workout clothing. He marked that area on the sector sketch as the living quarters. They went to another Quonset hut. Bradshaw held off on marking it until they reemerged, drenched in sweat. That was enough confirmation of a gym on-site.

  Jesus, Pfarrer went all out, Bradshaw mused. Stresses fitness and rehearsals. No overly lard-assed neckbeards in sight.

  Ninety minutes after the dispersal, the group reemerged in their clothes from before, showered and ready to go. They continued running rehearsals until they broke at about 17:00. From what Bradshaw could see through his scope, the men appeared in good spirits, laughing and engaged in animated conversation. Bradshaw had no clue what they were saying, but he didn’t like what he saw.

  Unit cohesion.

  The men returned to the chow hall, and after a half-hour, they departed and made their way back to the mockup in ones and twos. As they started to congregate, Bradshaw shifted his focus.

  What’s going on here? Bradshaw wanted to approach and break out the directional microphone, but the guard towers made that an impossibility. There wasn’t time to crawl into position slow enough to avoid being noticed, and even the most inattentive dimwit would notice a man dressed as a bush.

  Bradshaw shifted from the SR-25 to the Nikon. He hoped the gathering wouldn’t go to sunset. As an afterthought, he dug out the Nikon’s night vision attachment and had it at the ready.

  “Hey, brother,” Shawn Taylor said.

  Randy Wallace—a lean, pale man with an impressive drooping mustache and a brown ponytail—turned around and grinned at the arrival of his brother infantryman. “How’s it going, Shawn?”

  The two men embraced, then stepped back and looked each other. “Oh, you know. Just doing the gun monkey thing. You getting in on this hit?”

  “You know it,” Wallace said. “One of the lucky 20. You?”

  “I’m leading one of the teams,” Taylor said.

  “Hell yeah,” Wallace said. “Can’t wait to put a bullet or 30 in that spic bitch.”

  “Oughta teach the wetbacks to stay in their shithole country,” Taylor said.

  “Hell, we’ll be doing ICE’s job for them,” Wallace said.

  A sly grin crossed Taylor’s face. “Heard a funny joke today.”

  “Lay it on me,” Wallace said.

  “How do you starve a nigger?”

  A smile dawned on Wallace’s face. “Hide his food stamps in his work boots?”

  Taylor laughed heartily. “Yep!”

  “Why do niggers hate country music?” Wallace asked.

  Taylor adopted a contemplative expression. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because every time they hear ‘hoedown,’ they think their sister’s been shot.”

  That resulted in a roar of laughter from both Taylor and Wallace. After he was able to speak, Taylor said, “Okay, okay. How do you start an avalanche in Mexico?”

  “How?”

  “Roll a nickel down the street.” When the laughter died down again, Taylor added, “Who’s the richest beaner in Mexico?”

  “Who?”

  “The beaner that gets the quarter!”

  As they laughed, Bill Pfarrer and Mark Gerald ascended the stairs to the stage, the former with a megaphone in hand. By the time they reached the center, the crowd of 60-something had grown silent, their eyes locked forward. Behind the two, a flag had been suspended. It was red, with a white circle in the middle. Within the circle was a black Celtic cross.

  Pfarrer clasped his hands behind his back and looked out to the crowd, meeting several of their eyes. Once he had them where he wanted them, he lifted the megaphone to his lips.

  “Brothers!” he called out. “Fellow patriots! Defenders of the white race!”

  The crowd sounded off as one. It came off as a mix between “hooah” and “oorah,” a sign of the Resistance’s mixed military background. Their war cry echoed through the valley and brought a swell of pride to Pfarrer’s chest.

  “This moment is 64 years in the making,” Pfarrer said solemnly. “Our proud race let up just once. Cultural Marxists seized the opportunity, opened the door for multiculturalists. Look at what’s happened in the following years.” He paused a beat, then bellowed, “Look what’s happened!”

  Pfarrer looked into the crowd and watched the simmering rage wash over them. He knew exactly what was on their minds. Pfarrer had worn that same look multiple times as he came into his full racial awakening.

  “The mud people and the Jews continue to whelp offspring by the litter,” Pfarrer said menacingly. “They open our borders so more of their kind can prey upon our race, our culture. They want to outnumber us so that they can oppress us, relegate us to second class citizens, have us deny our superiority.

  “But more of our own have achieved consciousness,” Pfarrer continued, his tone carrying an air of hope. “They pushed out the fraudulent half-breed that held the office, fended off the multiculturalist, and installed a racially conscious white man.”

  Applause began. Pfarrer cut it off with a bellow. “This is no time for celebration, brothers! Just because we’ve reclaimed control of the ship does not mean we’ve righted it!” He pointed out to the hills off to his right. “Right now, out there, the multiculturalists are already scheming to retake the government, to complete the genocide of the white race. Their agents embedded deep within the state apparatus and their colleagues in the Zionist media are working at igniting a coup d’état to emplace their people in government!”

  The words triggered a chorus of boos from the gathered men. They champed at the bit, eager to exact vengeance in the name of racial purity. Pfarrer forced himself to suppress a smile. It was that basic, tribal urge to defend their people through spilled blood that had brought them together at the cusp of the pending event.

  “The time is now, my brothers,” Pfarrer said. “We will give notice to the enemy that they can no longer reign over us, can no longer oppress us with impunity. We will fire the first shot and fell one of their heroes. And when they attempt to retaliate—and they will, as violence is the only language those barbarians speak—we will give them no quarter. Their filthy blood will run freely in the streets. We will put them down!”


  The roars were a variety of whoops, hollers, and war cries at first. Eventually, someone in the crowd threw the fascist salute, and it spread through the crowd, accompanied by a unified shout of, “Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!”

  Pfarrer fought the urge to join the chants. Despite being steeply rooted in Nazi ideology and having a 14/88 tattoo, Pfarrer had shied away from establishing the Resistance as a dedicated Nazi movement. He respected and admired Hitler for unrelenting defense of the master race, but he wanted a uniquely American movement. Still, he understood that the chant and salute were common rallying cries for the white man, a point of reference to which they could relate. That they took that much pride in their race brought tears to Pfarrer’s eyes.

  “You men know me,” he said quietly when the chants died down. “You know where I’ve been. You know what I’ve done. I’ve had the privilege of being a member of some fine fighting units, and of leading others.” His free hand pointed a finger at the stage. “Right now, with you men…this is my defining moment as a leader. You men are the finest fighting unit I’ve ever commanded. There is no one else I’d rather take into the most important battle I’ve ever fought.”

  The cheers reached their peak volume. Pfarrer basked in the accolades, then turned to Gerald and gave him a tight-lipped smile and a nod, which Gerald returned. After about 30 seconds of maniacal applause and discordantly chanted slogans, Pfarrer held up his free hand and awaited silence.

  “The 20 primaries on the assault force will leave with me for Phoenix tomorrow morning. Alternates, stand by your phones in case something happens to one of the primaries. Everyone else, I hope that a month from now, we’ll be standing before you with victories under our belt. If not, it was my absolute honor to lead this movement.” He took a deep breath in through his nose, then snapped a crisp fascist salute. “For our race!”

  The men returned the salute as one. “Sieg heil!”

  * * *

  Bradshaw pulled back from the Nikon camera. The sunlight had held out, and the ambient camp lighting had helped. He thumbed through the digital camera’s picture cache and checked his work. Most of the photos were crisp and clear. The crown jewel was the crowd snapping to attention and rendering the fascist salute. Bradshaw couldn’t see what was on the front of the flag, and both Pfarrer and Gerald had remained largely out of sight after they came on-stage, but the salutes were unmistakable.

  It’ll have to do, Bradshaw thought. He hoped that between the camp setup, the training drills, the short-barreled rifles, and the Nazi salutes, the probable cause threshold could be reached.

  It’ll be worth not putting a bullet in that Russian motherfucker’s dome. Bradshaw would have been lying if he said he hadn’t been tempted. It would have been a simple shift to the SR-25 and the twitch of the trigger.

  Bradshaw knew it wasn’t just morality that kept him from committing an extrajudicial killing. More than anything, it was pragmatism. As good as Bradshaw was, he only had 60 rifle rounds on his person, while they had automatic weapons. Killing the Russian then would have been a pyrrhic victory. The goal was to protect Gabriela Rivera, avenge Logan Fox, and live to see the conclusion.

  He checked his watch: 18:12. The sun was just slipping beneath the horizon, and the temperature had lowered a few degrees. There was still too much ambient light to pull out of the LP/OP. He’d probably wait until about 21:30 to slowly withdraw and try to cover his tracks before making his way back to AZ-83. Once he was on the backside of the hill, he’d be able to push the pace and meet Simmons by the arranged RV time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tucson, Arizona

  14 September 2018

  06:30 hours Tango (13:30 hours Zulu)

  Gabriela Rivera stood in her kitchen, her U of A coffee mug in hand. She wore a large navy blue Arizona shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. Bob Marley’s “Get Up, Stand Up” played in the background through her home surround system as she perused Twitter. A repost showed highlights of Sean Hannity’s most recent show. It revolved around the deep state conspiracy theory, the alleged national security crimes of a senior US Senator from California, and alleging that anyone who opposed the current administration suffered from a “derangement syndrome.”

  One such highlight showed Hannity with one of the President’s senior advisers. Greg Lambert was young, debonair, and had a sparkling smile as he spoke. Against her better judgment, Rivera turned the sound on, and Bob Marley’s mellow croon gave way to the interview.

  “So, Greg,” Hannity said. “You’re working on the inside. What are you doing to counter the deep state’s efforts to derail our President?”

  “Primarily, we’re keeping our eyes and ears open,” Lambert said. “Opposing opinions are great. It’s good to hear another perspective for comparison and contrast, but end of the day, you’re either on board with the President’s plan to make this nation great again, or you’re gone. We’ve definitely had to boot more than a few lunatic Democratic holdovers from the previous administration.”

  Hannity adopted a practiced grave expression. “The previous administration certainly did their best to knock us down a few pegs to get chummy with the socialist European nations.”

  “That, they did,” Lambert said. “And look, folks are free to believe that. The 1st Amendment protects the right to be ignorant, unfortunately. At the same time, there’s no place for ignorant types in this administration.”

  Rivera snorted at the line and took a sip of coffee. I think we have wildly different definitions of ignorant.

  A sly smile crossed Lambert’s lips. “Besides, they could always go the paid protestor route. Hear it’s working out for Gabby Rivera out in Arizona.”

  Hannity laughed and said, “She’s another agitator, inciting violence—”

  Rivera closed the video and set the phone down. “That’s enough Twitter before morning coffee,” she said aloud. She guzzled what remained of the cup and went to reload. Shame about Lambert. Pretty boy with nothing between the ears and a gap where his heart should be. Wasteful.

  Frantic knocking cut through her reverie. Rivera glanced to the wall clock. 6:35? Who the hell…? She grabbed a large knife from the block and held it in her left hand as she tip-toed her way to the front door. The knocking resumed, and Rivera glanced through the peephole. She breathed a sigh of relief as she unlatched the chain and retracted the deadbolt.

  “I was ready to stab you,” Rivera said, showing the knife. “Maybe next time call ahead?”

  “Wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” Jack Bradshaw said. He wore a T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes, and looked as if he’d stepped out of the shower only minutes earlier.

  Rivera shrugged. “Can’t sleep. Usually don’t before a social event.”

  “We need to talk,” Bradshaw said.

  “Uhm, okay,” Rivera said. She stepped aside. “C’mon in.”

  Bradshaw entered the home and closed the door behind him. Rivera made her way back to the kitchen, returned the knife to the block, and grabbed a plain black mug for Bradshaw. “Coffee?”

  “Hoping I won’t need it,” Bradshaw said. “You can’t go to that rally.”

  Rivera rolled her eyes as she filled the second cup. “Then you should take this coffee, because I already told you that cancelling isn’t an option.”

  “You don’t understand,” Bradshaw said. “If you go to that rally, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

  Rivera brought both cups over to the counter, set one down in front of Bradshaw, and then lifted hers to her lips. “You sound pretty confident, like you have some knowledge of the threat that I don’t.”

  Bradshaw took a deep breath. “I’m asking you to trust me. Postpone it.”

  “Trust goes two ways, Jack,” Rivera said. “You want me to trust you? Trust me. Let me in.”

  “Gabs…” Bradshaw inhaled deep and closed his eyes. “You would figure that being a lawyer would teach you the value of plausible deniability.”

  Rivera cocked an eyebrow
. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying if I give you what you want, I’ll make you an accessory to a legally gray activity.”

  “Try me. Spill, Jack.”

  Bradshaw forced a breath past his pursed lips. He looked at Rivera and said, “Show me a computer.”

  Rivera fetched her MacBook Pro and booted it up. A minute later, she was logged in, and she turned the computer towards Bradshaw. He plugged in a gunmetal gray USB data stick. While it mounted, Bradshaw booted up a Chrome browser window and initiated a download.

  “What’s that?” Rivera asked.

  “VeraCrypt,” Bradshaw answered. “Encryption software. Not going to be able to show you what I’ve got otherwise. It’s on the level.”

  Rivera nodded and said nothing as the download completed. Bradshaw opened the program, selected the VeraCrypt file, and entered his passphrase. The computer took a moment before it mounted the encrypted volume on the desktop. Bradshaw selected it, found the volume’s sole folder, and dragged it to the Preview icon. Once the images loaded, he entered full screen mode, then turned the computer to Rivera.

  “What am I looking at?” Rivera asked as she moved closer to the screen.

  “Those are from yesterday. I found the WRMs training camp. I followed a lead.”

  Rivera’s eyes widened as she took in the photographs of the WRM training mockup. “Holy shit.”

  Bradshaw folded his arms. “Keep scrolling.”

  Rivera reached the pep rally photos and watched the WRMs salute. Her heart sank in her stomach. She bit her lip as she turned the computer back towards Bradshaw.

  “You can’t pass this along to law enforcement?” she asked.

  “Already have,” Bradshaw said.

  “Your friend in ICE,” Rivera said, making the connection.

  “Yes.” He omitted that the intel was filtered to Rick Dalton through the grey hat hacker. “Those are fully automatic weapons. That would be probable cause for a search warrant…if I had video. Photographs alone? Falling short.”