Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  He forced an exhale through the bandanna tied around his mouth and nose. The sun hovered high above, and the temperature was a scorching 42°C—no, 108°F, Merkulov reminded himself. Despite his near-total immersion in American culture, some habits still died hard. It was entirely too hot to be wearing black, and especially a hooded sweater jacket. Still, it was necessary to conceal the folded MCX. A few of the liberasts sported baseball bats and brass knuckles. Merkulov wondered if he could get away with killing a few of the young fools on his way out.

  Focus, Merkulov told himself. He glanced back to the congregation. A newcomer had arrived in some sort of smaller SUV, and people were gathering around them. Before he could get a better look, footfalls reached his ear. Merkulov turned around to find Pfarrer and Taylor approaching. Both had similarly concealed their features, and there was light printing where they stashed their rifles.

  “You good, Mark?” Pfarrer asked.

  Merkulov nodded and pushed another exhale past his lips. “It’s hot,” he said.

  Pfarrer nodded. “Yeah, it is. C’mon, let’s move a bit closer to the front before more arrive.”

  “Right behind you,” Merkulov said, falling in line. He had received contact from Gradenko that morning, letting him know that the diversionary aspect was in place. His eyes scanned the perimeter for any sign of one of Gradenko’s go-to men, but he abandoned the notion just as quickly. There was no way the rezident would be so foolish as to use somebody so easily traced back to the Consulate.

  He took one more deep breath as he looked at the crowd. Despite the gathering’s purpose, most of those present seemed in good spirits. Black Bloc elements chatted it up with bubbly, idealistic co-eds. Merkulov couldn’t help but think what kind of chaos his assets and he were about to cause and that none of the American morons around them knew it was coming.

  The thought brought a smile to his face.

  Sandra Clément was hard at work, the TV screen/remote control in her hands as the drone powered up. Bradshaw approached and took a look at the machine. It was roughly three feet long, with four sets of foot-long rotor blades. He glanced at the underbelly camera, held in place by a mount. Bradshaw looked between it and Clément, then cleared his throat.

  “How much did that run you?” he asked.

  Clément’s eyes never left the screen. “A little over two grand.”

  “Camera definition?” Bradshaw asked.

  “4K.”

  Bradshaw nodded as he folded his arms. “What’s the upper ceiling?”

  “If surveillance angles weren’t a concern?” Clément shrugged. “Two miles and change. For this endeavor’s purposes, I’ll run it at 200 feet. High enough that a casual observer shouldn’t notice it, but low enough to zoom in and get some good footage.”

  Bradshaw produced the small, black octagonal device that he’d taken from Clément’s other Pelican case. “And these? How do these work?”

  Clément looked to Bradshaw and fixed him with a polite smile. “Mr. Bradshaw?”

  Bradshaw straightened up. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “This will go much more smoothly if you save the Q&A for after the event,” she said. As she turned back to the screen, she continued, “I understand your curiosity and desire to control all elements of the situation. I’d also understand if this was you looking for an excuse to chat up a pretty lady. I need to get this drone up and running, and make sure the trackers work, and as for extracurricular conversation, I’m not sure my boyfriend would appreciate that, as secure as he is.”

  Bradshaw held up his hands to placate Clément. “Easy there. I’m not sleazy enough to chat you up on a job within minutes of meeting you. Just wanna get a feel for the tech’s reliability.”

  Clément looked up and smiled once more. “It’s reliable.”

  “All right, then,” Bradshaw said with a smile and a polite nod. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bradshaw walked across the parking lot. Rivera sat on a squad car’s ram bar, her arms crossed. As he grew closer, she looked to him and gave him a small smile.

  “Hey.”

  Bradshaw nodded. “You good?”

  Rivera wiped sweat from her brow. “Hot one today. Glad I opted for the sleeveless blouse.”

  “Good call,” Bradshaw said. “You wearing your vest?”

  Rivera pulled one of the straps towards her shoulder to expose the gray Kevlar. “As promised.”

  “Good.” He sighed and glanced out at the crowd through his Oakley Gascans. “Black Bloc’s growing quick.”

  “Yeah,” Rivera said. She sighed. “I hope I can keep them on a leash.”

  “Hopefully, you won’t have to,” Bradshaw said. “We’ve got your back out there, Gabs.”

  Rivera smiled impishly. “I know.” She motioned to the cops and EP agents. “You should get your game face on. I’ll be fine, Jack, really.”

  Bradshaw nodded dutifully, then turned and made for the gaggle. Rivera watched him walk away, then turned her eyes on the crowd. She took a deep, calming breath and searched for her center. Try as she might, the anxiety refused to abdicate its throne inside of her mind, or undo the knot it had tied in her abdomen.

  Get it together, Gabby, she told herself. You wanted this. Get your pinche walking boots on and do the damn thing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Tempe, Arizona

  14 September 2018

  12:29 hours Tango (19:29 hours Zulu)

  Sandra Clément wore the same clear headset that the EP agents wore. The radio was multi-band, allowing her to alternate between the protection detail and law enforcement, depending on what she saw on the screen. The drone had been overhead for about a half-hour, and still had more than enough juice to last the rally’s duration.

  Clément sat outside, in the shade of a tree a good distance away from the rally. The tree was as concealed of a position as she would get while maintaining a strong drone signal. To passers-by who saw her, she was nothing more than a millennial enjoying a hot but otherwise gorgeous day.

  Clément positioned the drone over the rally. With the after-market software she had installed on the remote control, the 10 plainclothes EP agents in the crowd showed on the screen with vibrant red dots on their chests. The tracker worked on the 4G wireless network, had the same GPS as a smartphone, and relayed the position within less than a meter. It also allowed her to walk people onto targets by marking the target on the screen and setting the trackers to vibrate when they were close.

  The technology was experimental, co-developed by a friend of hers with the Marshals Service. He had reached out due to her expertise with drones and drone imaging. Together with a software engineer, they had developed the program in the hopes of improving law enforcement manhunts. Clément’s school of thought was with the utilization of drones, suspects could be marked and officers could be walked into a suspect’s blind spot to effect a non-lethal takedown, both improving officer safety and decreasing the amount of officer-involved shootings. When it was pitched to her that way, her enthusiasm for the project hit peak levels.

  Clément grabbed her hand transmitter and held it close to her mouth. “All elements, this is Oracle. Signal’s coming through clear. Beginning my reconnaissance.”

  “Oracle, this is Boy Scout,” Bradshaw said. “Solid copy on all. Please advise.”

  A tight-lipped smile spread across Clément’s face as she manipulated the joysticks. All right. Let’s see what we can do.

  Rivera stood at the back of the stage as the president of ASU’s College Democrats hyped up the crowd. She looked out into the mass, doing her best to hide her growing apprehension. It was a heterogeneous swarm, largely consisting of Gen Z undergraduates, the Black Bloc, and some older folks who had a free day and a shared belief system. Each time she met the eyes of a Black Bloc protestor, she tried to discern if they were genuine or one of the imposters. Rivera quickly abandoned that notion after a handful of attempts.

  Keep cool, sh
e told herself. Rivera breathed deeply. She was suddenly conscious of the soft vest she wore beneath her blouse. Rivera had over-tightened the straps, and it constricted her breathing. She cursed herself for not double-checking it before approaching the stage.

  “…let’s hear it for the keynote speaker! Lawyer, activist, and executive director for the American Dream Foundation, Gabriela Rivera!”

  Rivera forced a smile and stepped forward. She hugged the ASU College Democrat president, then turned to the crowd and waved.

  Showtime.

  * * *

  In any other circumstance, Bradshaw would have felt dirty for the fitted Sun Devil cap worn backwards and low on his brow. At that moment, interscholastic rivalries were the furthest thing from his mind.

  The crowd was a nightmare. He barely had any elbow room, and there was a lot of dead space between the stage and a few feet in front of him. His senses were hyper-alert. Each time somebody bumped into him, Bradshaw immediately held up his hands apologetically as he conducted a spot threat assessment. Most of the kids were too busy riding the crowd’s feeling, and the Black Bloc were split between watching the stage and checking the backdrop for any signs of counter-protestors.

  As the crowd roared their approval at Rivera’s introduction, Bradshaw turned away and held his hand transmitter to his lips. “Oracle, you have something for me?”

  “Working on it,” Clément said. “Be patient.”

  Bradshaw forced an exhale out of his nose before he replied with a neutral, “Roger.” He was still about 50 meters from the stage. His initial plan was to hang back so he would have freedom of movement once a target was identified, but he couldn’t help but feel he was well outside of his effective range. Bradshaw opted for a compromise, and weaved through the sea of protestors as he closed the distance to 40 meters.

  Randy Wallace edged closer to the stage. He had no idea when the diversion would start, and he wanted to ensure he was in position. Wallace thanked his foresight for the bandanna he’d tied around his forehead, keeping perspiration out of his eyes. He had no idea why Phoenix’s Black Bloc didn’t adopt a lighter color for the warmer months.

  He smiled beneath his makeshift mask. Then again, they’re race traitors. Not exactly known for their intellect.

  Wallace held a baseball bat. It was solely a prop. The moment the action started, the bat would be discarded and he’d break out the MCX slung tight against his ribs. The 1911 holstered appendix would be a backup in case the weapon malfunctioned or if he went black on primary ammunition. Wallace doubted the former would happen. He trusted Shawn Taylor’s gunsmith skills.

  A bubbly blonde bumped into Wallace as she jumped up and down, cheering Rivera’s arrival. The bump knocked his baseball bat loose from his hands, and it fell to the ground in front of him. Wallace bent over at the waist and immediately regretted it, feeling the MCX’s barrel protrude from the bottom of his hoodie.

  As he stood upright, bat in hand, Wallace checked his surroundings. If anybody had noticed the slip, none said a word. Judging from the glazed looks in their eyes, they were too captivated with the target to notice. That realization elicited another smile from Wallace.

  Braindead zombies. Zero situational awareness.

  Clément also wore a smile. She’d spotted the gun barrel peek from beneath the man’s hoodie. With the press of a couple of buttons, the man was marked. More specifically, his GPS coordinates were logged and displayed on the screen. Clément scanned the screen for the nearest red dot, then tapped the screen. The EP agent’s call sign appeared in a pop-up box, and she keyed her transmitter.

  “Linebacker, Oracle.”

  “Go.”

  “One hostile. Directly 15 meters ahead. Average height and build, holding a bat. Packing heat on his right side. Making his way towards the stage at a leisurely pace.”

  “Roger. Moving to intercept.”

  Bradshaw’s voice came through over the net. “Break. Oracle, Boy Scout. You see anybody else moving roughly on-line with him?”

  “Not yet,” Clément said. “Looking now.”

  “Roger.”

  The last time DJ Simmons had heard his heart pounding so loudly in his ears had been when his first child was born. Before that, it had been his first time stepping onto the gridiron at Spieker Field. Simmons figured that after those experiences, there was nothing that could rattle or excite him on a comparable level. Even the evacuation in Florence had done little to test his nerves.

  Simmons realized as he approached that he was no longer on the defensive, the role to which he’d grown accustomed over nearly two decades in the security industry. At that moment, stalking an unsuspecting white supremacist, Simmons had become the hunter. The closest experience that could compare was breaking through an offensive line in search of the quarterback, and even that comparison was grossly inadequate.

  Focus, Simmons told himself. He took a deep breath and continued to move into position, his eyes locked on his target. Tunnel vision was a major risk, but with the crowd density, it couldn’t be helped. If he averted his gaze for even a moment, the target could disappear into the crowd. Simmons trusted Clément to watch his back while he focused on the task at hand.

  When Simmons was five meters away, he keyed up. “All points, Linebacker. Initiating takedown.”

  Simmons forced himself to control his breathing as he advanced. He was a gentle giant, slipping through the gaps between protestors with ease. As he closed within 10 feet, Simmons got a better glimpse of the target. He noticed the considerable bulge along the WRM’s right side. Even with chopped down rifles and folding stocks, the weapon printed through the hoodie. The only thing that saved them from discovery up to that point was that most of the protestors were singularly focused on Rivera on-stage.

  Surreptitiously, Simmons drew his Glock 17 from his Blackhawk CQB leather holster and held it at his side. When he was within arm’s length, he gripped the target’s left shoulder with a meaty paw. Before the target could react, Simmons took a fast step forward and dug his Glock into the imposter’s ribs. He felt the front sight bump against the concealed long gun, and leaned in close so only the target could hear him.

  “Uh-uh,” he breathed. “We’re gonna walk out real easy-like. Got some boys in blue that wanna have words. You buck, I’mma fill you with hollow-points. You live, you’ll be in a wheelchair, shitting in a bag. You dig?”

  “Yeah,” the target said, his voice laced with equal parts disgust and defeat. “I dig.”

  Clément’s voice filled Simmons’s earpiece as she announced, “Linebacker’s made contact. I say again, Linebacker’s made contact.”

  It took three nerve-wracking minutes to reach the edge of the crowd. Simmons stood inches from the target the whole time, standing offset so his right foot fell between the target’s legs with every step. He held his Glock low and flush with the target’s torso, grateful that the crowd’s focus was forward. The target cooperated, the fear of being left crippled driving his every motion.

  As they reached the edge of the crowd, Simmons spotted Deputy Marbach with a couple of subordinates in riot gear. Once they broke free, Simmons handed the target off and faded back into the crowd. Marbach would restrain, search, and sequester the target.

  “All points, Linebacker,” Simmons said. “That’s one. Headed back in.”

  “Oracle copies,” Clément said. “You’re clear.”

  “Good work,” Bradshaw said. “Keep it up.”

  “The previous administration was notable for its progress,” Rivera told the crowd. “The truth is, that was another chapter in a long history of fighting for equality, albeit a happier chapter than most.” There were nods and a couple of agreement calls from the protestors. “I’m not going to stand here and say that the Republicans were allies in that fight, but they certainly weren’t stooping to the measures they are now.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Rivera spotted the big college ball player, Simmons, walk a man wearing Black Bloc colors to
the nearest protest barrier. The police quickly and quietly detained the would-be shooter, and Simmons seamlessly disappeared into the crowd. She refused to relax, but she was certainly glad that one threat was out of play.

  “What caused it?” Rivera asked. “A black man in office?” There were more cheers. “That’s a fair accusation. Birtherism, the disgusting comments made about the First Lady…the rise of the current cult-like mentality that grips half of our voting electorate. And it didn’t stop with the President, either.”

  She nodded with conviction as she paced the stage and continued. “Ferguson. A community outraged that one of their own has been gunned down. They take to the streets. Some of their protests turn violent. While I don’t condone violence or destruction, I understand the rage they felt when that officer walked. At the same time, I also understand the desire for peaceful protest.

  “So, an NFL quarterback decides to take them up on that,” she said. More nods from the crowd. “First, he sits. Then he consults with a fellow player, a veteran of the US Army Special Forces, and their talk convinces the quarterback to take a knee. Peaceful, non-violent dissent. Protesting injustice. Everyone should be satisfied and open to discussion, right?”

  Rivera waited a beat, then shook her head. “Nope. The President’s words, verbatim: ‘Get that son of a bitch off the field right now. Out. He’s fired!’” A chorus of boos filled the air, and Rivera waited for it to die down. She spotted another one of Bradshaw’s men walking a Black Bloc imposter out of the crowd and into the waiting hands of law enforcement. She let out a long exhale, hoping it came off as political frustration.

  “What the President and his supporters don’t understand is that the vast majority of progressives don’t hate law enforcement.” The crowd was silent as they watched to see where she was going with her comments. “We understand that law enforcement is an underappreciated field. We appreciate the men and women in the field that uphold the values represented by the badge, and we understand the good ones make up the majority.” The older folks in the crowd gave her lukewarm applause, but the younger protestors and the Black Bloc stared frosty daggers.