“What we won’t stand for is racial profiling,” Rivera said. She heard a cheer of agreement as she caught another EP agent approaching a suspect. “We won’t stand for excessive use of force.” Another cheer. The EP agent made contact and started walking the suspect out. “We won’t stand for people being murdered in their homes, and we won’t stand for a de-facto secret police looking to place immigrants in danger because of this.” Rivera raised her left forearm and rubbed the outside of it with her right hand.
The crowd applauded loudly. A few of the Black Bloc chanted, “No justice! No peace! No justice! No peace!”
Rivera watched the third would-be assailant delivered to the police and let out a small sigh. Maybe we’ll get through this without any bloodshed.
Sandra Clément maneuvered the drone in a lazy circle. A fifth imposter had been walked out. She had batted 1.000 thus far. According to the radio traffic, each marked man had been carrying one of the modified MCX rifles, as well as a vest with magazines and at least one sidearm.
Even so, Clément couldn’t pat herself on the back just yet. If they had a hard number for how many shooters they were looking for, then she’d be able to gauge their progress. The rally was scheduled to run two hours. Clément mentally braced herself to spend that entire time block scanning for threats, even if she managed to take all the threats out of circulation.
“Oracle, Boy Scout,” Bradshaw said.
“Go,” Clément said.
“Got a potential mark, 10 meters due north of me. Can’t see if he’s strapped, but he’s acting weird. Get eyes on him?”
“Roger,” Clément said. She zoomed out and located Bradshaw’s dot. From there, she sent the drone into an easy drift to reposition. Once she found an optimal angle, Clément held the drone in place, zoomed in, and scanned the man in question. She couldn’t see any sign of printing, which was impressive with a short-barreled rifle. The man was relaxed yet alert, and didn’t seem to pay much attention to Rivera’s speech. He inched a bit closer to the stage, which elicited an off-feeling within Clément. It wasn’t until he reached to his side and adjusted a sizable object along his ribcage that Clément received positive identification.
“Got you,” she said as she reached to key up. “Boy Scout, Oracle. Subject is hostile. I say again, subject is hostile.”
“Roger,” Bradshaw said. “Moving to intercept.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tempe, Arizona
14 September 2018
12:51 hours Tango (19:51 hours Zulu)
“Even people inside his own administration think he’s gone off the rails!” Rivera continued, to the audience’s approval. “They recognize the President for what he is: a petulant man-child whose worst impulses mean the ruin of this nation.”
“Lock him up!” somebody shouted from the crowd.
Rivera nodded and said, “That’d be nice. Let’s be honest. That’s only one of two ways to stop him. His supporters aren’t angered by his flippant displays of racism.” The crowd offered assent. “They’re not angered by his defiance of a court order to reunite migrant families, or his doubling down to find ways to lock children in cages even longer.” That comment elicited loud, vehement booing. “They’re not put off by the myriad of sexual assault accusations lobbied at him.” The booing grew louder. Rivera shrugged and said, “Forget about a golden shower tape bringing him down. He could admit that tape exists and his supporters would probably give water sports a try.”
After the crowd’s laughter died down, Rivera said, “No, we can’t rely on the decency of the nativists, of the right-wing populists, of the President’s sycophants. We can’t rely on it because they don’t possess it. They’ve embraced bigotry and foreign influence in the pursuit of power, desperate to maintain their dominant position in society. The special counsel finding evidence of criminal misconduct could trigger impeachment proceedings, but even then, if we don’t have the numbers in Congress, it won’t happen.”
The crowd fell silent, all eyes on Rivera, hanging to her every word. “We’ve already got a sitting member of Congress on record, saying that his duty is to protect the President. Not to uphold the Constitution. Not to serve his constituents. No, he and his cronies believe they’re elected to protect the President.”
The boos returned, louder than before. Rivera held her hand up to lower the volume, then said, “It’s going to come down to you.” She pointed to a random person in the crowd, then shifted to another. “And you.” Rivera’s finger traversed the crowd as she said, “You, you, and you.” She turned her finger on herself. “It’ll come down to me, as well. The surest way to stop this travesty in its tracks is to vote. Not just in the Presidential elections. Midterms are just as critical, if not more so. Midterms determine whether our Congress is the faithful opposition or mindless Presidential flunkies.”
The applause rose, and Rivera said, “You need to make sure you’re registered to vote! Check your registration! Ask for the day off to vote, or go in early! It is absolutely critical that you get out and vote! If our voices aren’t heard, then our nation will continue to be dictated by the ignorant and the out of touch!”
As the crowd hollered their support, Rivera caught movement out of the corner of her eye. A group that looked about 100 strong approached from the southeast. She couldn’t make out the signs in their hands, but she did notice that the newcomers were overwhelmingly pale-skinned. A few of them wore red ball caps. The thing she immediately noticed was that a large number of them carried tiki torches.
Oh, shit, Rivera thought as she scrambled to maintain her crowd’s attention. She hoped the law enforcement contingent had seen what she saw and were moving to defuse the powder keg before it ignited.
Sandra Clément also saw the second mob approach. Very quietly, she gathered her things, rose to her feet, and slung her bag over her shoulder. As Clément walked east towards Mill, her eyes glanced at the visual in her feed. The crowd was a blend of various types. There were the rank-and-file supporters of the President. They seemed to form the rough majority, judging from appearances. None of them seemed to be openly armed, though that meant nothing. Arizona was a constitutional carry state, and there were no laws that prevented bringing firearms to protests.
The next sizable contingent were Proud Boy-looking types. They wore black hoodies that bore the American flag next to the Arizona flag, matching baseball helmets with a white logo across the forehead, and shin and knee guards. They held dowels painted red, white, and blue, and beat them against wooden shields. The shields were painted black, with a white V superimposed and an American flag sticker placed in the middle.
The remainder were various white nationalist types. Clément could see men wearing Nazi armbands and others waving the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia. Others carried tiki torches. There were even men in Klansmen robes interspersed through the crowd. The last thing Clément saw before she redirected the drone to the main rally was a glimpse of a sign that said, “Alexandre Bissonette did nothing wrong.”
“Jesus Christ,” Clément muttered aloud. When she reached Mill, she hooked a left and began making her way toward the boat rental shop on the lake’s shore. Clément hung the remote control around her neck by a lanyard and reached for her radio transmitter. “All points, this is Oracle. Be advised, you’ve got a counter-protest inbound, and it’s ugly. Advise you move your principal and clear out.”
One of the Black Bloc thugs next to Shawn Taylor shouted, “Oh, shit! We’ve got mad fash inbound!”
Taylor glanced to the right to see the advancing swarm, and he couldn’t help but smile beneath his mask. It was reassuring to know that the Resistance wasn’t the only group of racially aware white men. The counter-protest was proof that there was a rude awakening in store for the leftist scum that had been running the nation into the ground for too long.
One of the counter-protestors had a black shirt that depicted bodies being tossed from a helicopter. Taylor could barely make out the word
s: “Make Communists Afraid of Rotary Aircraft Again” above the graphic and “Physical Removal since 1973” across the bottom. He stifled a chuckle. Part of him wished he was standing by that man’s side, ready to dole it out with the multiculturalist filth, but Taylor knew his role carried more weight. Assassinating Rivera would be the beacon that awakened the white race and galvanized them to action.
On the stage, Rivera pleaded, “My friends, ignore them. Do not give them the time of day. They come here with hatred in their hearts, and they’ve come looking for a fight. Don’t oblige them. We do our fighting in the ballot booth.”
Your slick talk isn’t going to save you, cunt, Taylor thought. His pulse spiked a bit as he realized the moment was approaching.
As he turned his attention back to the stage, Taylor caught movement to his right. Before he could assess it, he felt a pistol being dug into his ribs and a hand clamping his shoulder. Hot breath hit his cheek as a rasped voice whispered in his ear.
“Move with me nice and slow or I’ll kill you.”
Taylor snarled beneath his mask and immediately threw his head back, connecting with some part of his assailant’s head. Once he felt the restraint hand loosen, he spun and connected with a back elbow. Taylor took a step back, pointed at his assailant—whom he recognized from Mark Gerald’s briefing as the race traitor defending Rivera, Jack Bradshaw—and started shouting.
“Fucking pig!” he barked. “He’s a fucking infiltrator!”
* * *
Bradshaw immediately recognized the play. Several of the Black Bloc types turned towards him, brandishing baseball bats. Their eyes drifted between his face and the Glock 19 in his hand. Bradshaw only had a couple of seconds to discourage the potential attackers and prevent the shooter from advancing on the stage.
“Fucking fash!” one of the Black Bloc types shrieked.
“Get him!” another barked.
The stars from Taylor’s assault had cleared up enough for Bradshaw to be confident in his decided course. He snapped the Glock up, trained the front sight on Taylor’s center mass, and squeezed the trigger four times.
The 9x19mm Federal Hydra-Shok rounds tore through Taylor’s abdomen, sternum, spine, and throat. Taylor’s eyes went wide as blood gushed from the massive wound channel created by the expanding round. He fell prone, his pulverized internal organs staining the grass.
The unaffiliated protestors fled at the sound of gunfire. Most of the surrounding Black Bloc backed up, giving Bradshaw maneuver room. A trio of them remained in place, bracing themselves for the charge. One of them let out a shrill war cry as he rushed forward, his aluminum bat held high over his head.
Bradshaw’s first impulse was to open fire, but he immediately knew how that would play out in review. He moved to his second impulse: a push kick square to the closest man’s chest. As the Black Bloc assailant stumbled back, Bradshaw caught movement to his left. He ducked, but not fast enough to avoid a glancing blow to the head. Bradshaw stood his ground, spun on his heel, and drove the Glock’s muzzle hard into the assailant’s sternum. The opponent yelped as he folded at the waist, and Bradshaw used the temporary pause to spin the assailant around, snake his left arm around the man’s throat, grab his own right shoulder with his left hand, and drive the Glock out, canted 45 degrees.
“Back up!” Bradshaw hissed. He used pressure on his hostage’s sternum to coax him into mirroring his movements. Bradshaw started moving in the direction of the crowd’s edge, training his gun on each member of the Black Bloc around him.
One Black Bloc protestor took an aggressive step forward, and Bradshaw put the Glock’s muzzle against his hostage’s head. The hostage yelped, the muzzle still hot from being fired moments earlier.
“Back up!” Bradshaw bellowed in his loudest command voice. “Back up or I’ll fucking kill him! Back! Up!” The gaggle retreated, their hands in the air. “Everybody on the fucking ground!”
That was when Bradshaw heard gunfire near the stage.
Ron Parks had been on the fence about calling a principal evacuation when he saw the counter-protestors. The police were already moving additional units into position to maintain standoff distance, and Rivera seemed insistent on staying on-stage and keeping the rally going.
The first gunshot that rang out from the crowd’s depths decided the issue.
“Prairie fire,” Parks shouted into his microphone over the panicked cries of the fleeing crowd. Two of the EP agents at the front of the stage had already wrapped Rivera up and started moving her toward the exit while others scrambled to get off stage.
As he approached the edge, Parks noticed that four of the Black Bloc had moved to the rally’s front rows. People scrambling for cover had left open space in front of the stage. The protestors revealed themselves to be frauds as they unzipped their jackets and reached for their modified MCXs.
“Gun!” Parks barked as he spun and drew his custom 1911. The former cavalry scout pumped the nearest target with four quick rounds of his custom hot hollow-point rounds and cut him down. He moved laterally in the opposite direction of the principal to draw their fire. Another pair of EP agents joined him and opened fire on the assaultive quartet.
A round tore through Parks’s right thigh. He started to stumble, and directed his fall so that he fell on his stomach. Parks stretched his arms in front of him, taking up a shooter’s face in his tritium sight picture. The 1911 spoke twice, and chunks of the man’s skull exploded as the .45ACP rounds made their passage.
Parks scanned and saw that all four shooters had fallen. He grimaced, rolled onto his back, and slid his pistol into his leather inside-the-waistband holster. The blood staining his khaki slacks reminded him that he’d been shot. Parks reached to his beltline for his SOFTT-W tourniquet, released it from the PHLSTER Flatpack carrier, and opened it up. He slipped his foot through the loop, brought the tourniquet up into his groin, and cinched it down as tight as he could. He then turned the windlass until he couldn’t his leg.
“All points, Gremlin,” one of the EP agents called over the net. “Frida is secured. I say again, Frida is secured.”
“Oracle copies,” Clément said. “You’re clear. Break. Spurs, Oracle, I saw you go down. You good?”
Parks keyed up. “I’m hit, but I’m good. Mark four enemy KIA and tourniquet emplacement, time now.”
“Roger,” Clément said.
Parks heard Simmons come up on the net. “Oracle, Linebacker. You have a 20 on Boy Scout?”
There was a pause before Clément replied. “Roger. He’s moving to the edge of the crowd. He’s good for now. One enemy KIA on his tally.”
Bradshaw allowed himself a relieved sigh as he reached the riot line. He removed his Glock from the side of his captive’s head, then pushed the Black Bloc protestor towards the nearest officer.
“You’ve got a WRM down in field,” he said as he holstered the pistol. “He incited the disturbance when I tried to walk him out. This one tried to bum rush me. Pass it on to Marbach.”
“You’ve got it, sir,” the officer—a tall, hulking mass of muscle named Gearing—said as he accepted the protestor.
Bradshaw glanced back. The unaffiliated protestors had spread to the four winds. On the other hand, the Black Bloc had rushed forward towards the counter-protestors, raring for a fight. His heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the surroundings and keyed up his radio.
“All stations, Boy Scout. I’m green-2. Gremlin, good work getting the principal off the X.”
“Break,” Clément said. “Boy Scout, Oracle. You’ve got a pair of possible WRMs headed under the Mill Ave overpass. They’ve shed their masks and beanies and are westbound, towards Giuliano Park.”
Bradshaw glanced in that direction and saw two faint black-clad figures casually walking away. He could not make out facial features from that distance, but there was something in his gut that told him that at least one of the retreating pair was the Russian.
A scowl formed on his face as he started jogging
in that direction. By the time he cleared the riot line, Bradshaw had broken into a full-blown sprint. He reached beneath his shirt for his Glock as his free hand reached to key the radio.
“Oracle, show Boy Scout in pursuit! Notify Marbach and give him my location!”
Bill Pfarrer’s face was hot with rage as he marched under the overpass, with the Salt River to his left and some vegetation standing between him and a business plaza to his right. His hands trembled as he resisted the urge to glance back at Tempe Beach Park, where eight of his finest race warriors had given their lives.
The thought filled his chest with sorrow and brought tears to his eyes. Pfarrer bit his bottom lip as he continued to battle impulse and walk away.
“We shouldn’t be running,” Pfarrer told “Mark Gerald” in a low voice. “We should go back and cut those motherfuckers down.”
“I understand your rage,” Kazimir Merkulov lied. “But you are a general in this war. Generals don’t make last stands. They live to rebuild and fight another day.” It will just be another day without me, he didn’t say. He hoped that the chaos they’d created would be enough, as the last thing he wanted was to remain under with the Resistance. There was too much heat to remain under. As much as Merkulov wanted to stay and kill Bradshaw, after the failed rally hit, Pfarrer and his men would be a lightning bolt for law enforcement. The smart play was to flee, return to Russia, and lay low.
Fault Lines Page 31
