Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  “And the guns plus the Nazi salutes only extend to reasonable suspicion,” Rivera said.

  “Exactly,” Bradshaw said. “That’s why you have to cancel the rally. They’ve got a plan to kill you. They’ve been rehearsing all week. There’s a good chance they’ll succeed.”

  Rivera took a deep breath. “If they want to make a martyr of me, fine. The rally goes on.”

  “Goddamn it, Gabs,” Bradshaw rasped. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

  Rivera’s eyes blazed as she turned on Bradshaw. “This is more important than my life. I’d figure that you, of all people, would understand that.” He trained his gaze downward as Rivera took a deep breath. “If today’s the day, then so be it.”

  Bradshaw stormed off to the couch, a knot tightening in his chest. Logan Fox’s death flashed before his eyes with horrifying vibrancy, immediately followed by an image of Rivera suffering the same fate.

  Deep breaths. Bradshaw forced himself to sit. He pressed his palms into his forehead and breathed steadily until the knot in his chest subsided. As his mind cleared, Bradshaw rubbed his hands together as he tried to search for the solution. Just hours after utilizing an advantage of not having a government badge, Bradshaw was once more realizing the limitations of the private citizen. With a badge, he’d simply place Rivera in protective custody.

  That brought a smirk to his face. The difference between kidnapping and protective custody is a piece of tin.

  Rivera approached, the coffee she’d poured for Bradshaw in hand. She took a seat beside Bradshaw and offered him the mug. He looked at her, then accepted it. Her hand hovered over his shoulder, the debate raging in her mind. Finally, she relented, and her fingers made contact. Rivera gently traced her hand in a lazy vertical motion as she found her words.

  “I don’t make this decision lightly, Jack,” she said. “I don’t want to die. I just know that if I run now, if I give these bastards a victory, I won’t be able to live with myself.” She leaned in closer, her voice emphatic. “I love my country, Jack. I want to see it do better, to pull itself from the mud, to not add another chapter to its list of misdeeds and mistakes. The military aren’t the only ones who’ve given their lives to defend this nation’s principles. I’m doing my part.”

  “I get it,” Bradshaw said quietly. He chuckled. “You know, when I was younger, I’d have ripped into you for that. I thought the military was the end-all, be-all expression of patriotism. Something I had to grow out of.” Bradshaw turned and looked Rivera in the eye. “I doubt you and I will ever see eye-to-eye on these topics, but that doesn’t change what I think about you.”

  “And what’s that?” Rivera asked.

  “That you’re one of the bravest people I know.” He looked away and dropped his head. “And that I need to find a solution to protect you because your death might be a failure too many for my conscience to bear.”

  Rivera gave him a tight-lipped smile, patted his shoulder, and said, “Drink.” Bradshaw did as he was told. She rose from the couch, stood in front of him, and folded her arms. “I saw the pictures, but I don’t speak military. Break down the plan for me.”

  “I did some research on the drive back to town,” Bradshaw said. “Majority of the turnout for your rally’s gonna be college kids with political organizations. There’s also been chatter about a neo-fascist counter-protest, which in turn has sparked a Black Bloc mobilization.”

  Rivera nodded at the revelation that the often-assaultive subsection of the ANTIFA movement would be present. “There’s always neo-fascist chatter when I’m involved,” she said. “Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “The WRMs were practicing crowd movement, getting into position, and putting rounds on stage,” Bradshaw said. “I think they’re banking on a counterprotest turning into a battle royale, and using the chaos as cover to make the hit.”

  “Okay,” Rivera said. “How do you counter that?”

  Bradshaw contemplated. “The WRMs are gonna blend in with the Black Bloc. Their jackets won’t stand out, and they’ll wear masks, which is standard Black Bloc fare. We exclude the Black Bloc, they’ll push back and you’ll still have chaos. It’ll just be anarchists versus police.” He shook his head. “We could put plainclothes agents in the crowd, but with how packed it’s gonna be, there’s no chance we’ll be able to differentiate between actual Black Bloc and the WRM posers.”

  A thoughtful expression crossed Rivera’s face. “What about if we got eyes overhead?”

  “I looked at that during the site recce,” Bradshaw said. “Wide open space, no good positions for overwatch.”

  Rivera smiled. “You’re thinking old school, physical security.”

  Bradshaw took a sip of his coffee. “Whatcha got in mind?”

  “I have a friend, has a bit of a side business doing drone photography. I’ve used her to photograph other rallies. I could reach out to her, see if she’s amenable.”

  Bradshaw nodded. “That’s a good idea. Long shot, but we’ve got nothing better. Touch base with her. Give her my number.”

  Rivera smiled as she unlocked her phone. “You’ll like her. Pro-gun lefty.”

  Bradshaw arched his eyebrows. “Huh.”

  “They exist,” Rivera said with a smile. She placed the phone against her ear and made her way back to the kitchen.

  Bradshaw pulled out his own phone and made a call to DJ Simmons, who picked up after the second ringtone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Assemble the team and get them out here, stat.”

  Simmons’s voice betrayed his incredulity. “She’s still going through with it?”

  “She is,” Bradshaw said. “I’m calling an audible.”

  “Got it,” Simmons said. “On my way.”

  13 miles southwest of Vail, Arizona

  14 September 2018

  07:05 hours Tango (14:05 hours Zulu)

  Pfarrer sat on his cot in his containerized housing unit. It was a near-replica of the CHUs he’d stayed in as a Blackwater contractor—or Xe or Academi, he mused. Whatever they’re calling themselves nowadays. It was fully outfitted with a swamp cooler, lighting, and an internet connection on a massive VPN. Even though Pfarrer knew that hardship developed better soldiers, he was big on his men being able to rest in comfort during their downtime. The amenities in his CHU were standard across the compound.

  In Pfarrer’s hands was a wallet-sized family photograph. It was taken in Flagstaff during autumn, two years earlier. A blend of red, orange, and golden leaves swirled together in the blurred background. Pfarrer sat on a bench next to Jennifer, one arm wrapped around her. On her lap sat Christopher, while Arielle sat on his lap. Trevor stood behind his father, his hand on Pfarrer’s shoulder. Their smiles were wide and genuine.

  Joy came naturally in the Pfarrer household. They were a family held together by love. The Pfarrers had worked hard to instill the principles of hard work, intellect, and racial awareness in their children. Christopher was too young to grasp it, but he would learn in time. Arielle had questions, as the socialists in public schooling worked hard to indoctrinate her. However, the frequent family time in the Pfarrer household also served as deprogramming.

  Trevor had come into his own as a young, racially conscious white man. He took pride in his roots, and his eyes were open to the nation’s ails. Pfarrer had taken care to steer Trevor clear of the crude racially supreme buzzwords and trains of thought in which his own father had raised him. Tattoos and petty acts of violence were beneath Trevor.

  Pfarrer actually hoped that Trevor would one day grow to be another David Duke or Richard Spencer: a clean-cut, well-spoken advocate of the white race, using his words and charisma to awaken others. That things had escalated to the point where Pfarrer found high-end violence necessary was a statement as to his failures and the failures of his contemporaries.

  A trio of knocks filled the silence in the room. Pfarrer’s eyes remained on the photo as he said, “Enter.”

  Mark Ger
ald stepped inside, his hands clasped behind his back. Like Pfarrer, Gerald was clad in a black hoodie, a black beanie, blue jeans, and black Birkenstocks. “I’ve been monitoring social media and the usual message boards,” Gerald said. “It looks like both our brothers and the red caps are talking about mobilizing on the rally. Everything’s on schedule.”

  Pfarrer nodded. “Good.” He set a finger on the photograph and traced it over the faces.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Gerald asked.

  Pfarrer smiled. “Yeah. Just hoping we survive today. I feel like there’s so much I still have to teach my children.”

  “If I may, sir?” Gerald asked. Pfarrer looked up and nodded. “We’re both soldiers. Of course, we hope we’ll survive, but should today be the day we die, then our deaths will leave a lasting message inadequately conveyed by words. We are fighting for our race. Our deeds will be a rallying cry for those who follow.”

  Pfarrer smiled again and nodded. “You’re right, Mark. Still…” He glanced back to the photograph. “I want to see the gratitude in my children’s eyes when they see the world we’ve created for them.”

  “Let’s take it a step at a time,” Gerald said. “Finish the hit, exfiltrate clean, and then we can think beyond that.”

  “You’re right,” Pfarrer said. He kissed the photo, then slipped it in his pocket. Pfarrer stood, closed his eyes, and inhaled deep through his nose. He pushed the exhale past his lips, then reopened his eyes. The sentimentality was replaced with the steely glint of the combat veteran that he was. He looked to Gerald and said, “Assemble the men. PCCs and PCIs. We roll in 10.”

  Gerald nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Tempe, Arizona

  14 September 2018

  10:07 hours Tango (17:07 hours Zulu)

  The detail had linked up at Rivera’s house, where Bradshaw had briefed the new plan. When everyone had a warm and fuzzy, they had mounted their vehicles and made a beeline for I-10 West. Aside from the occasional radio check, nobody spoke. The FM radio remained muted, leaving only the engine noise for ambience.

  Rivera sat in the backseat of the middle vehicle. Her phone remained locked, her eyes focused on the blurred scenery outside of her window. She told herself that she was nervous over addressing such a large crowd, but she knew that was a lie. The fear of revisiting the pandemonium she’d encountered in Florence grew, and it took everything she had to keep command of that fear. Rivera refused to allow it to dictate her actions. She meant what she had said: the cause was more important than her life.

  In the front passenger’s seat of the same vehicle, Bradshaw mentally rehearsed actions on the objective. He was in combat mode, embracing the adrenaline buzz that coursed through his veins. The drive to Phoenix was different for him than the one to Florence. In the former case, he was cognizant of the elevated threat level, but he did not know that contact was guaranteed. With the knowledge that there would be contact, Bradshaw had slipped into a familiar mindset. It had been honed in the desert metropolises of Iraq and the unforgiving mountains of Afghanistan over 11 years.

  Yet, Bradshaw knew it was different. Back then, he was definitely responsible for the lives of others, but those others had weapons and were capable of fighting back. In the case of Gabriela Rivera, Bradshaw was her weapon. The added responsibility, knowing any mistake on his part could give the enemy an opening to take her life, weighed on him. That weight compelled him to double down on the internal war games.

  Bradshaw knew that the rally would render Florence a cakewalk. Being on-stage had provided elevation that paved the way for target discrimination. To intermingle with the crowd meant firearms were a last resort. The foreground and background were too densely populated to risk collateral damage through over-penetration, even with the hollow-point rounds each man carried in their magazines.

  The one point upon which Bradshaw and Rivera disagreed were actions if a riot or a brawl broke out. Rivera wanted to remain on-site to help break it up. Bradshaw allowed her to think that was what would happen. In reality, at the first sign of trouble, Ron Parks—who would be the lead agent on the stage—would scoop up Rivera and drag her to the vehicle, even if she kicked and screamed bloody murder. The way Bradshaw figured, if things reached that point, the proactive mission had failed and a hit was imminent.

  The convoy pulled into the link-up point nearly two hours prior to the rally’s start. It was a business center at Mill Avenue, north of West 3rd Street. As they pulled in, Bradshaw spotted marked vehicles from Maricopa County Sheriff’s, Tempe Police Department, and a couple of vehicles from the Phoenix, Glendale, and Scottsdale Police Departments. From what he could see, it was about a 70/30 ratio of riot police to standard uniformed officers. Dread snaked its way down Bradshaw’s spine as the convoy rolled to a halt.

  When Bradshaw got out, he was greeted by a towering deputy sheriff whose nametape read “B. Marbach.” The deputy had some fluff around the edges, but it was readily apparent there was an abundance of functional muscle buried beneath, as evidenced by his arms bulging against the khaki fabric of his short shirt sleeves. Marbach’s bald head and neatly trimmed ginger mustache added to the no-nonsense aura he projected.

  “Brent Marbach,” the deputy greeted.

  “Jack Bradshaw.” They shook hands. “You guys don’t look optimistic about the turnout.”

  “Black Bloc’s involved,” Marbach said. “Kinda kills the ‘glass half-full’ approach.”

  “Fair.” Despite Rivera’s neutral take on the group, Bradshaw knew they were notorious for their violent behaviors. “What’s the game plan on your end?”

  “Use the barricades to corral the protestors, man those with unis,” Marbach said. “Form a hard perimeter at stand-off distance with most of the riot officers. We keep any counterprotestors from drawing attention, we’ve won half the battle.”

  “Solid.”

  “If things go pear-shaped, CS and smoke grenades,” Marbach continued. “Highly recommend you clear the area long before that, unless you brought gas masks.”

  “That’s my plan,” Bradshaw said. “Though I’d like to avoid reaching that point entirely.”

  “Agreed,” Marbach said. He stepped in a bit closer. “Another thing: I have standing orders from the patrol chief to arrest your client the moment she approaches anything that bears a remote resemblance to incitement. Will she be a problem?”

  Bradshaw shook his head. “Despite her rep, she’s all right. She wants this to go peacefully just as much as you or I.”

  Marbach raised an eyebrow. “If that were true, she’d have stayed home.”

  Bradshaw shrugged. “I can’t knock somebody for sticking by their convictions, even if I disagree with them.”

  Marbach pursed his lips. “No,” he said finally. “I guess you can’t, can you?”

  A sleek, black Jeep rolled into the parking lot. Hands instinctively reached for pistols. Rivera stepped forward, her hands held outward. “Guys, guys, it’s cool!” she said quickly. “That’s our drone operator.”

  Bradshaw kept his hand near his Glock 19 until the passenger stepped into full view. He had a hard time not gawking. She was model-tall, with a cappuccino complexion and a lithe physique. Her dark brown hair was naturally curly and hovered just above her shoulders. Her wardrobe consisted of a dark blue shirt with the words “Clément Imaging” in a square on the left side of the chest, brown cargo pants, and hiking boots. As she approached, Bradshaw noticed her freckles and the rectangular glasses high on her nose’s bridge.

  The drone operator grinned as she extended her free hand. “Sandra Clément,” she said by way of greeting.

  As Bradshaw shook her hand, he noticed the faintest of outlines beneath her shirt, at her appendix. Clément followed his eyes and smiled. “My job’s the drone, though I figured it might be one of those kinds of gigs. If that enters play, things have gotten seriously fucked up.”

  Bradshaw looked back to Rivera with a wry grin. “Yo
u’re right. I do like her.”

  Rivera beamed in response. Clément nodded and said, “Wanna help me out? Got a Pelican case full of beacons for your men.”

  “Beacons?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Yep,” Clément said. “The drone job’s on the house on the condition that y’all be guinea pigs for some software I’ve been advising on. If it works, I’ll have a much easier time walking you in to any threats. It doesn’t work, then we’re back at square one.”

  “Merry fuckin’ Christmas,” Bradshaw said with a smile. “Let’s do it.”

  Merkulov stood at the edge of the crowd and glanced back. The police had congregated in a parking lot across the street. He could not see everyone gathered, but he had a feeling the target was there, embedded within the group of lawmen.

  Part of him wished he had a fragmentation grenade. He could walk across the street, cook it for a couple of seconds, then toss it in the middle with too little time left on the fuse for any would-be heroes to throw it back. It would be much simpler, and he wouldn’t be forced to rub shoulders with liberasts.

  The crowd was still growing, but it was sizeable enough that Merkulov and the assets were able to blend in. Most of the Black Bloc was congregated at the rear of the rally, though a small group had formed near the stage in a form of protective line. In-between the line and the main group were the unaffiliated protestors.

  Merkulov had overheard some of their conversations. A couple of the waifish men reveled in being goluboi, and others spoke with such self-hatred of their own race. As big of useful idiots as Pfarrer and his men were, at least their hearts were in the right place. There was nothing wrong with racial pride. As much as Merkulov was put off by American blacks, at least they understood defending their people and culture. It was the same with the Latins and Orientals. Only the ethnic Europeans actively bemoaned their ancestors’ accomplishments.