“That sounds like a euphemism for ‘cut and run,’” Pfarrer said bitterly.
“You’re thinking like an NCO,” Merkulov said. “You’re an officer. You need to act the part. Think strategic, not tactical.”
Pfarrer stopped Merkulov and looked him in the eyes. “What do we tell their families? They’ve left loved ones behind fighting the war, and we’re running when we should be standing our ground.”
Merkulov opened his mouth to speak as he turned to check over his shoulder. The words caught in his throat as he spotted Bradshaw sprinting under the overpass, bloodlust in his eyes. Merkulov grinned wickedly as he unzipped his jacket and brought his chopped-down MCX into play.
“Bradshaw,” Merkulov rasped. He glanced at Pfarrer and barked, “Go!”
Pfarrer produced his own MCX and said, “Bounding overwatch. I’ll get set and cover your break in contact.”
Merkulov had already stepped forward, his rifle shouldered. He flicked the selector all the way to AUTO and squeezed the trigger. The cut-down rifle chattered as it spat a stream of 5.56x45mm rounds towards Bradshaw. Merkulov watched as Bradshaw rolled forward and off-center, and started to adjust his sight picture. Before he could make target acquisition, the air around him cracked shrilly as rounds narrowly missed his flesh. He hit the dirt and rolled to the side.
From behind, Pfarrer opened fire on Bradshaw, forcing his head down. The former Marine bellowed, “Set!”
Merkulov scrambled to his feet and sprinted past as Pfarrer continued to lay down a base of fire. Once Merkulov was about 10 meters behind of and offset Pfarrer, he shouldered his rifle and began putting rounds in Bradshaw’s direction. “Set!”
As Pfarrer scrambled to his feet and bolted back, his muzzle in the air, Merkulov slipped into his zone. Okay, Bradshaw. This ends today, goluboi.
Bradshaw ducked behind a tree trunk as bullets whizzed past. The Glock’s slide had locked back on an empty magazine. He dropped the empty box as he fetched a spare from beneath his shirt. When the replacement was slapped into the magazine well, Bradshaw power-stroked the slide to put the gun back in battery.
“Boy Scout, Oracle, status,” Clément said.
“Trading shots,” Bradshaw whispered into his mic. “I’ve gotta get back to you.”
“Boy Scout, Linebacker,” Simmons said. “I’m en route with some deputies. What’s your location?”
“Wood line, south of the shore,” Bradshaw said. “Closing with the targets.”
“10-4,” Simmons said. “We’re moving.”
“Tell Marbach to set up a perimeter. Lock down Rio Salado and Scottsdale.”
“Copy.”
Bradshaw pushed out an exhale as he risked a peek around the corner. Pfarrer and “Gerald” weren’t on the walkway. He disappeared back into the wood line, moving towards the south end, his Glock extended in front of him. Bradshaw moved briskly, his sights traversing back and forth as he scanned for targets. His heart pounded in his ears, and he forced himself to breathe deeply through his nostrils. Sweat trickled down his forehead and cheek.
As Bradshaw emerged from the wood line, Pfarrer and “Gerald” skirted across his line of vision, disappearing into the plaza between the Morgan Stanley/Silicon Valley Bank and Edgewater buildings. Bradshaw exploded into action and raced forward. As he approached the corner of the Morgan Stanley building, Bradshaw slowed his pace and brought the Glock back to the ready. He pied the corner, half-expecting the Russian to be lying in ambush.
Bradshaw cleared the corner and spotted Pfarrer and “Gerald” taking a left at the Edgewater building. With a grunt, Bradshaw crossed the 50 meters between his vantage point and the Edgewater building. He ignored his legs’ protestant screams and pushed them harder.
As Bradshaw closed the distance to a few meters, Pfarrer spun around and raised his rifle. Bradshaw had already leveled his pistol, and his finger twitched six times as he filled Pfarrer’s stomach, chest, and throat with jacketed hollow-points. Pfarrer dropped his rifle on its sling as he fell to his knees, then collapsed forward, the blood pooling on the sidewalk beneath him.
Bradshaw had stopped watching Pfarrer the moment he’d fired his sixth shot. His sights were trained on “Mark Gerald.” The catalyst for the past month’s events. The man who had initiated the threats against Gabriela Rivera. The target whom he thought he’d killed once before.
The man who killed Logan Fox.
The Russian raised his right hand slowly, then used his left hand to unsling the MCX and set it on the ground in front of him. Using the same hand, he removed the Glock 34 holstered in his waistband and also set it on the ground. “Gerald” kicked both weapons towards Bradshaw, then lowered himself to his knees and interlaced his fingers behind his head.
“You win,” he said, maintaining his cover accent. “Turn me in.”
Bradshaw advanced, his front sight bored in between the Russian’s eyes. “I killed you a year ago,” he said quietly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
Bradshaw lashed out with a snap kick to “Gerald’s” chin and knocked him on his back. He positioned himself perpendicular to the Russian and out of his leg sweep radius. “You’re responsible for aiding and abetting terrorism, both abroad and on American soil. You helped kill American servicemen.” He paused and took a breath to steady himself. “You killed my best friend. I’d be doing everyone a favor if I put a bullet in your skull.”
“That would be murder,” “Gerald” said. “Americans lack the stomach for murder.”
“Wanna bet?” Bradshaw rasped.
“Then do it, goluboi,” the Russian breathed, his accent coming out in full on the last word.
“Say that again,” Bradshaw ordered quietly.
“You Americans…you’re all liberast, goluboi scum,” he taunted. “You’re a faggot, just like your faggot friend that died in that guard tower in Afghanistan.”
Bradshaw’s finger slipped inside the trigger well. The Russian smiled, closed his eyes, and waited for his bullet. Bradshaw’s hands shook as his moral compass wrestled with his baser urges. His breathing quickened, and his pulse raced.
The shaking stopped. Bradshaw’s heartbeat slowly returned to normal. He took a deep breath through his nose, then pushed it out of his mouth. The Glock was lowered a smidgeon.
“On your stomach,” he said.
The Russian opened his eyes. “What?”
“I said, ‘On your stomach!’”
Bradshaw lashed out with a vicious kick to the Russian’s ribs that resulted in a sickening crack. The Russian cried out, grasping his side as he rolled onto his stomach. Bradshaw holstered his pistol, then took a knee on the small of the Russian’s back, which elicited another pained yelp. He pulled out a pair of flex-cuffs, torqued the Russian’s hands until they were just above the tailbone, then slipped on the cuffs and cinched them tight. Bradshaw yanked the Russian to his feet and whispered in his ear.
“I’m turning you over to the police. You can tell everyone your story there. And then you can sing your song to every alphabet soup agency and hope they’ll provide you with witness protection.” He paused. “I figure your alternative is a bad case of polonium poisoning.”
“You think you know so much,” the Russian taunted with a smile. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, liberast.”
“Yeah,” Bradshaw said. He slapped the Russian’s damaged rib, and the Russian sucked air through clenched teeth. “Walk.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tempe, Arizona
14 September 2018
13:45 hours Tango (20:45 hours Zulu)
Maricopa County Deputy Sheriff Brent Marbach clicked his pen and slipped it back in his breast pocket. His eyes studied the notes he’d taken over the past 15 minutes. He looked back up to Bradshaw, who leaned against the squad car, his arms folded. Bradshaw had agreed to the debrief, certainly against company advice. In Marbach’s eyes, that was to Bradshaw’s benefit, but as was, the disposi
tion still looked bad.
“All right,” Marbach said. “Walk me through this again.”
Bradshaw took a deep breath to fortify his patience. The only thing that kept him calm was the knowledge that Rivera had been successfully evacuated from the scene without injury. “I initiated the takedown. He headbutted me, elbowed me in the face, and then spun around and recognized me. He then announced me as a ‘infiltrator’ to the actual Black Bloc guys. At that point, I was surrounded.”
“So you shot him?” Marbach said.
“Yes,” Bradshaw replied evenly. “He was a member of a crowd looking to incite violence against me. I was clearly outnumbered. In that case, all members of the crowd are lethal force threats.”
Marbach pursed his lips. “You know that’s not going to play out well when I submit my report.”
Bradshaw cocked his head to the side. “How so?”
“You killed Taylor where he stood, then managed to disable the other members of the crowd with non-lethal force. If the crowd at-large presented a lethal threat, why didn’t you kill them, too?”
“Because I only had 17 rounds in my gun,” Bradshaw said coldly, his calm ebbing away. “I go to reload, I get mobbed, now they’ve got my gun and my spare mags. Everybody’s in for a bad day.”
Marbach refused to budge. “If the objective was to escape, you could have just backed out.”
“The objective wasn’t solely to escape,” Bradshaw said. “My objective was always the protection of my principal. Taylor’s action was clearly a diversionary tactic meant to free him up to close on the stage and open fire on my client. It was apparent at that point that we weren’t going to get through the rally quietly, and that Taylor was going to open fire on my principal. So, I made the decision to take him out of play.”
“It still doesn’t look good, Bradshaw,” Marbach said.
Bradshaw inhaled deeply as he tried to keep his temper in check. “You know what else doesn’t look good, Deputy Marbach? Me killing one of the protestors supporting the client because a white nationalist tricked them into attacking me.” He bit his lip as he formulated his thoughts. “The Black Bloc are assaultive shitheads. There’s no love lost there.”
“But?” Marbach asked.
“I don’t get my jollies from getting my gun off,” Bradshaw said. “I killed Taylor because he was an active threat to my principal and there were no non-lethal alternatives. I killed Pfarrer because he was an active threat to my person and there were no non-lethal alternatives. I spared ‘Gerald,’ or whatever the hell his name is, because he surrendered. Handed him directly to you. I think that’s consistency, don’t you?”
Marbach offered Bradshaw a smile as he put his notebook away. “Sorry,” he said. “Had to check the boxes. My report will reflect your statement. The bosses should accept it.”
Bradshaw nodded as he stuck his hands in his pockets. “All right. When can I get my gun back?”
“Probably in a month or so,” Marbach said. “You know how it goes.”
“Yeah,” Bradshaw said. He sighed. “You got a smoke?”
“No,” Marbach said as he glanced to his left. “Yo! Warner!”
A tall, fair-skinned deputy with sandy hair and a runner’s physique jogged over. “What’s up, boss?”
“Got a spare smoke for Bradshaw?”
Warner dug into his shirt pocket for a pack of Marlboro Reds, flipped it open with his thumb, and extended it towards Bradshaw. After Bradshaw accepted the smoke, Warner produced a black lighter, ignited it, and touched the flame to the cigarette’s tip. Bradshaw puffed on it, leaned against the car, and blew the smoke skyward.
“Thanks.”
Warner nodded his head. “No problem.”
“You’re good to leave whenever you’re ready,” Marbach said. He extended his hand to Bradshaw. “Good working with you.”
Bradshaw accepted the gesture. “Likewise.”
As Marbach and Warner departed, Bradshaw remained and enjoyed the cigarette. He took a sip of water from a bottle that one of the LEOs had provided, then followed it with another drag from his smoke. His eyes drifted across the way to the armored truck where he knew the Russian was holed up. The urge to step inside and beat the answers out of him was still strong. Stronger was the knowledge that he could beat the man silly and he wouldn’t talk. The counter-intelligence types were masters at extracting information from enemy agents, and Bradshaw would leave that work to them.
Bradshaw had brought the Russian in. He’d done his part. It had taken over a year, but justice would be served. He glanced down at his KIA bracelet and sighed heavily.
“I’ve got you, man,” he said quietly as he looked up and glanced out over the Salt River. “I’ve got you.”
Bradshaw watched Simmons approach out of the corner of his eye. Simmons stood beside him, folded his arms, and let out a long sigh. He cringed at the stench and looked at the cigarette in Bradshaw’s hands.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Simmons said.
“I smoke when I play cards,” Bradshaw deadpanned.
Simmons chuckled. “Whatever, Russell Crowe.”
Bradshaw gave Simmons a look. “Didn’t know you’d seen Proof of Life.”
“You kidding me?” Simmons asked. “That movie made K&R look sexy as fuck. I wanted to camo up and hit a rebel camp to recover a principal.”
Bradshaw was too tired to smile. “Well, you’ve got a taste of what I used to do.”
“Yeah,” Simmons said, “and you can keep that shit. Fuck that shit, man. Shit was nerve-wracking.”
“You’re telling me you didn’t have even a little fun?”
“Oh, it was a thrill to pull that wanna-be Nazi fuck out of the crowd and scare him shitless, like I was gonna impale him and roast him over a spit.” Both Simmons and Bradshaw chuckled. “But, I could’ve been killed. Parks got hurt.” Simmons shook his head. “I’ve got kids, brother. I’m too old for this shit.”
“Then you’re mature enough for the job,” Bradshaw said. “Too many young guns get hyped up in the adrenaline that they forget this shit’s not a fucking game.”
“Amen to that,” Simmons said.
“How is Parks?”
Simmons smirked. “Last I saw of that crusty old bastard, he was riding that morphine train and he’s high as a kite. Bleeding’s stopped. What I heard: prognosis is very positive. He’ll regain use of his legs in a few weeks. That tourniquet saved his life.”
“Good.” Bradshaw nodded. He looked back to the truck that held the Russian. Simmons’s eyes followed.
“Any news on our Ivan?” Simmons asked.
“Completely clammed up,” Bradshaw said. “Won’t say shit to anybody.”
Simmons nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “You did the right thing.”
“I hope so,” Bradshaw breathed.
“And you gunned down that Tiki Torch Brigade looking motherfucker,” Simmons said. “World’s not going to mourn his loss, or that other dipshit you dropped.”
“Somebody will miss them,” Bradshaw said. “There’s always one willing to look past the monstrosities to see what they want to see.”
“Way to ruin the day with your cynicism,” Simmons said.
Bradshaw pointed to the empty holster inside his waistband. “This is the second piece I’ve had confiscated in the last month. Can you believe this shit?”
Simmons shrugged. “Rich white people problems.”
“Fuck you,” Bradshaw laughed. “You know I’m not rich.”
“I know,” Simmons said with a grin.
Bradshaw exhaled and hung his head. “How’s Rivera holding up?”
“Solid, last I’d heard,” Simmons said. “Rolled straight from Tempe PD back to Tucson. Told the convoy to call me if there were any complications.”
Bradshaw nodded. “Good.” There were other emotions and impulses on his mind with regards to Rivera, but he was still detail leader. The job wasn’t finished until all friendly forces had successfully r
eturned to base.
“If you’re good to leave, we can roll.”
Bradshaw’s eyes drifted over to the armored van. His frown deepened as he watched Jeremy Hawthorne and his partner walk to the back, both dressed in casual clothing with badges hung around their necks. Hawthorne gestured to the door, and a Tempe officer opened it and climbed inside. A moment later, the officer emerged with the handcuffed Russian. Hawthorne placed his own cuffs above the flex-cuffs in place, then used a knife to cut off the latter. With their quarry in hand, Hawthorne looked over his shoulder, made eye contact with Bradshaw, and smiled.
“Fuck,” Bradshaw muttered.
“What?” Simmons asked.
“Hawthorne’s got the Russian.”
“So? Maybe they’re actually taking him seriously now that they’ve got him in hand.”
Bradshaw shook his head. “After all the time they spent focusing on me and not going after the WRMs? Color me skeptical.”
Simmons clapped Bradshaw on the shoulder. “Out of our hands, brother. C’mon. Let’s go home.”
Tucson, Arizona
14 September 2018
18:40 hours Tango (15 September 01:40 hours Zulu)
The debrief at First Guard Protective was a rehash of what Bradshaw had told Maricopa County Sheriff’s. Once Dominguez was satisfied that Bradshaw had done everything within company policy, Bradshaw was left alone to work on his report. It took about 30 minutes to write, during which Bradshaw was largely on autopilot. Simmons and he checked each other’s work to make sure it was legible and thorough, then Bradshaw took both reports to Dominguez’s office.
After three knocks, Dominguez granted Bradshaw entry. Bradshaw stood in front of the desk, handed the paperwork off, then said, “All done, sir.” He stood at ease while Dominguez looked the reports over.
“Looks solid,” Dominguez said. He gestured to the seat behind Bradshaw. “Take a load off a minute.”
“Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said. He sat down and placed his hands on his knees.
Dominguez interlaced his fingers, rested them on the desk, and offered a sad smile as he studied Bradshaw. Finally, he said, “Simmons is taking over the Rivera detail tomorrow. I’m putting you back in regular rotation starting Monday.”
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