“Before tonight, I was a ‘get sloppy drunk and shot down’ type. Now?” Bradshaw smiled. “I like you, Gabs. Can’t say I’d give another lady the time of day right now.” She returned the smile, then his faltered. “Of course, if you’re too busy, or if you don’t like being tied down—”
Rivera scooted up and planted her lips on Bradshaw’s. He wrapped his arms around her as he savored her taste. When she pulled back, she met his gaze and said, “Just because I’m comfortable with my sexuality doesn’t mean I’m opposed to monogamy.” She kissed him again. “I like you a lot, Jack. I have from day one, even when you had that stick up your ass.” Another kiss. “And yeah, I’m a busy person. That doesn’t mean I can’t make time for you, as long as you’re willing to be patient with me.”
“Same here,” Bradshaw said.
Rivera’s smile grew wider, and she kissed him once more. “I should head home. I’ve still got a lot of PR to do. A slew of VTC interviews on the major networks.”
“Maybe I could sweet talk you into staying a while,” Bradshaw said.
Rivera arched her eyebrows. “Yeah? How you gonna do that?”
“Like this.”
Bradshaw leaned in and kissed her. Rivera pressed harder against him and found herself once more in his embrace as their shared arousal returned.
“Persuasive,” Rivera said huskily. She shared a giggle with Bradshaw, then let out a sigh and smiled contentedly as he nuzzled her neck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tucson, Arizona
15 September 2018
03:45 hours Tango (10:45 hours Zulu)
Rivera and Bradshaw had lain together in the 15 minutes following their second round before she finally climbed out of bed and started to gather her clothes. Bradshaw joined her in the search. Once she was dressed, he’d walked her to the door and given her a long, slow goodnight kiss. Rivera smiled at him one more time before walking out the door. He’d locked it behind her, shut off the lights, and returned the bed.
Sleep hadn’t come easily for him in a long time. That night was different. Bradshaw did not replay the FOB Walker firefight. Instead, he recalled his evening with Rivera. Bradshaw did something he hadn’t done in a long time: think of the future. He was a realist who kept his expectations grounded, but part of him fantasized of commitment, perhaps even leaving the security game entirely and settling down.
What would you do if you left this life? Bradshaw wondered. He gave some thought to writing a book. The spotlight on Naval Special Warfare had given way to some solid novels from Batt boys. Bradshaw had survived more than one hairy encounter when he’d worn the tan beret. Coupled with his adventures in security, and there could be a story there. He’d burned his bridges with the Regiment, so anybody expecting him to maintain a code of silence had already deemed him persona non grata.
Write a fitness book? he also considered. It would draw less attention to his past. He shook the idea away as quickly as it came. Nobody writes fitness books anymore. They’re fitness bloggers now. Social media. No, thanks. Before he could muse further, the warmth of unconsciousness enveloped him.
The strident ringing of his Kyocera flip-phone stirred him from his slumber. Bradshaw reached over, looked at the number, and grunted. He flipped the phone open and held it to his ear.
“Rick, you just woke me from the best sleep I’ve had in the past year. This better be good.”
“Motherfucker, I’ve been calling you for 10 minutes,” Dalton said. His tone cut through Bradshaw’s post-slumber haze and compelled him to sit up.
“What’s up?”
“Check your email, man.” Dalton killed the connection.
The fuck? Bradshaw thought as he swung his legs off the bed, turned on his bedside lamp, pulled on a pair of Ranger panties, and searched for his laptop. When it powered up, he logged in and made his way to his email. As promised, there was a new message from Dalton’s personal address. Bradshaw opened it and found a Fox News link. He clicked on it, and a Firefox window popped up. When the page loaded, Bradshaw’s heart plunged into his stomach.
The headline read:
BREAKING: Russian Diplomat Involved in Deadly Left-Wing Melee.
No. The scowl grew in intensity as Bradshaw continued to read:
Kazimir Merkulov, a consular officer with the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, was arrested in connection with a deadly confrontation at the left-wing Rally for Humanity in Tempe, Arizona earlier today.
The Russian Consulate in San Francisco, where Merkulov was assigned, filed paperwork with the State Department late Friday evening. Anonymous sources close to the Department of Justice have informed Fox News that Merkulov was arrested under the name “Mark Gerald,” and was held on state and federal charges of conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder, discharging a firearm in a public area, illegal possession of an NFA prohibited firearm, and terrorism.
Oleg Gradenko, a senior cultural attaché with the San Francisco Russian Consulate, released a statement saying that Merkulov was acting without the consent or knowledge of the Russian government, and that Moscow would offer its full cooperation with law enforcement. However, the Russian government has decided to invoke diplomatic immunity to secure Merkulov’s immediate release into Russian custody.
“This man is a criminal just as much in the eyes of the Russian government as he is in the eyes of our American counterparts,” Gradenko’s statement read. “Merkulov will be punished severely in accordance with Russian law.”
Both the State and Justice Departments have declined to comment on the matter, citing an ongoing national security investigation.
This story is developing.
Bradshaw’s hand balled into a fist. His vision clouded. After all of that…that son of a bitch fucking walks away. He closed his eyes, inhaled deep through his nose, and exhaled out of his mouth. Bradshaw repeated the process until the haze dissipated. His mind needed to be clear if he was going to develop a course of action.
What was that OGA targeting officer’s name? Bradshaw thought. Farmer? Fairland? Fairchild? He pounded the side of his fist against his forehead. C’mon, Jack. Think. What was it?
A faint scraping sound reached Bradshaw’s ears. His eyes went wide as he turned and looked for the source. He was met with silence. Slowly, Bradshaw rose from his chair and made his way to the window, his bare feet noiseless on the carpet. With careful deliberation, Bradshaw pulled back the blackout curtain just enough to peek through it, then moved one of the blinds.
There were two armed men at his front door. Bradshaw couldn’t place the pistol’s make, but there was no mistaking the rectangular SilencerCo Osprey sound suppressor affixed to the barrel.
Bradshaw returned the blind and curtain to their original position, then rushed across the room. The first thing he did was grab his laundry hamper, peel back his sheets, and dump the contents on the fitted sheet. Bradshaw fashioned the clothing in a configuration that was a reasonable facsimile for his body, then covered it up with top sheet and comforter.
Next, he opened the door to his walk-in closet, stepped inside, and reached around the corner for the Remington 870 shotgun stashed there in the event of a home invasion. The factory stock had been replaced with a BlackHawk Knoxx SpecOps recoil absorption stock. The accompanying BlackHawk fore-end had replaced its standard counterpart, and mounted to the rail was a Streamlight TLR-1 HL light. A side saddle had been mounted to the left side, providing eight shells of Federal Premium buckshot, in addition to the five in the tube.
Bradshaw did not rack the fore-end, as he kept a round in the breach at all times. He positioned himself where he was concealed in the closet’s darkness, the Remington tucked firmly against his shoulder. With his strong hand’s middle finger, he pushed the safety into the fire position. His index finger rested along the receiver. Bradshaw did his best to control his breathing. Sweat formed along his brow.
The faint creak of his bedroom door opening filled the room, followed by footsteps barely
audible to the ear. A moment later, muffled pops filled the room. Bradshaw watched out of the corner of his eye as the gunshots tore through the several layers of fabric. His grip on the shotgun tightened as he waited for his opportunity.
C’mon… he urged the unseen assailants. Just a step further…
One of the gunmen took a step forward. He wore a hooded sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. A suppressed Glock was held in leather gloved hands. The voice said, “That’s not him. We’re blown.”
Bradshaw rested the sight bead across the man’s shoulders and pulled the trigger. The Remington roared as the slug raced out of the smoothbore barrel. The eight pellets tore through the target’s collarbone and neck. The body fell to the ground, its head attached to the body only by a few strips of skin and muscle, blood gushing from the massive wound.
Not stopping to admire his handiwork, Bradshaw rounded the corner as he worked the pump, chambering a new round. Another assailant was in his sights. Bradshaw triggered the paddle on his TLR-1 HL twice, initiating the light’s strobe function. Eight hundred lumens flashed at rapid intervals, disorienting the target. Bradshaw let loose with another shell, blowing a massive hole in the target’s throat.
“Shit!” one of the assailants yelped. He was in the doorway, and scrambled to retreat. Bradshaw chambered another shell and demonstrated why doorways were termed “fatal funnels.” This round ripped through the top half of the target’s head, shredding through skull and gray matter. Bradshaw worked the fore-end a final time, finding a fourth man who was already bleeding from over-penetration on the previous shot. He centered the aiming bead on the man’s face and squeezed the trigger. Nothing remained as the corpse fell to his knees, then crumpled in a grisly pile on the faux-wood living room floor.
Three and a half seconds had passed since Bradshaw had fired his first shell.
He racked the pump once more and stepped to the closest body. Slinging the shotgun on his back, Bradshaw took a knee and conducted a pat-search. The men spoke perfect English, which meant they were Russians staying in character, or Merkulov had hired local muscle to do the hit.
Bradshaw’s hand brushed against something hard, cold, and metallic. His fingers searched around it and found leather. His blood ran cold as he found the edges and yanked away from the cadaver’s belt line. When he held the item up for inspection, Bradshaw knew he had crossed a terminal line.
It was a silver star, surrounded with a matching band, embedded in black leather. The band read “United States” across the top and “Marshal” on the bottom.
“Oh, fuck me,” Bradshaw muttered breathlessly.
He dropped the badge, moved to the next body, and searched it with building trepidation. Bradshaw found another clip-on badge, this one of ICE Homeland Security Investigations. His chest tightened as the situation’s gravity set in. The third and fourth bodies yielded ICE/HSI and Secret Service credentials. One word formed in Bradshaw’s mind as puzzle pieces fell into place.
Hawthorne.
Bradshaw brought his internal line of inquiry to a screeching halt. It was only a matter of time before somebody called in the gunfire. He needed to put distance between himself and the crime scene.
He unslung the shotgun, tossed it on the bed, and marched to his walk-in closet. A minute later, he was dressed in a black T-shirt, red plaid button-down, jeans, and socks. He grabbed a Tactical Tailor Concealed Carry Sling Bag, set it on the bed, and unzipped it. It was almost packed to capacity, but there was just enough room for his laptop and charger, which Bradshaw placed inside. The next step was to strap his EDC kit to his belt line, then don a pair of hiking boots. Bradshaw then dumped both his work and personal cell phones in the toilet. The last thing he retrieved was a well-worn Duluth Trading ball cap, which he jammed low on his brow.
Bradshaw slung the bag and moved to the door, his M&P in hand. He glanced around to see if there was a containment team in place. When he saw nothing, Bradshaw closed the door behind him, slipped the pistol back in its holster, and began to jog. Once he secured breathing room, he’d make some calls and plan his next move.
The DM Motel was located at Craycroft, just south of 29th Street. The area was in the middle of a gang corridor and the establishment accepted cash, which was all one needed to know in regards to the quality of living. Fortunately for Bradshaw, being white did not make one stand out in that part of town. While most of the neighborhood’s residents were Hispanic, there were also a fair number of blacks and whites living in the corridor. The common demographic was poverty, and with that came both a sort of hyper-awareness and an innate desire to be left to one’s devices. That was exactly what had drawn Bradshaw to the location when he had selected it as his bugout staging area.
Bradshaw had walked west. It took him about 30 minutes to reach the motel. When he entered, he was covered in a thin layer of perspiration and reeked of intercourse. The front desk clerk—a heavy-set Hispanic woman with a prominent, hairy mole offset of her left nostril—didn’t bother to look up from her smartphone.
“Can I help you?” she asked with the bored dejection commonly found amongst those who’d gotten use to the hard times.
“Need a room,” Bradshaw said. “I can pay cash.”
“I’ll need a photo ID and two days’ deposit up front, plus a late check-in fee of $50,” she said. “You’ll get half the deposit back when we inspect your room prior to checkout.”
Bradshaw swiveled his bag to the front and reached inside for a wallet. It was identical to the one he’d left behind at his apartment. He removed a North Carolina driver’s license and extended it to the woman. She looked at the photo on the license, and then up at Bradshaw.
“Neil McCloud?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.
Bradshaw fixed her with his most winning smile. “My friends call me Ace.”
“You don’t look like a Neil,” she said. “Or an Ace.”
The smile was paired with a chuckle. “I get that a lot.”
The woman didn’t care enough to press the issue. Bradshaw extended a pair of $100 notes over the counter. That merited extra attention, and she ran a counterfeit marker over both notes. When no mark emerged on the bill, the woman moved to the register, opened it, and deposited the notes inside. Bradshaw glanced around as the clerk transcribed his information into the log book, thankful that the lobby television was set to a channel that had begun its late-night/early-morning infomercial rotation. If he hadn’t hit the news already, he would be shortly.
Once the log was updated, the clerk handed him back his false ID, then reached for a key. “Room 4B. Out the door, hook a right, right side, all the way at the back.”
“Thank you,” Bradshaw said. He accepted the key and left.
Along the way, he spotted a young, short Latino sporting an A-shirt, baggy jeans, and Adidas sneakers. The tattoos on his arms, chest, neck, and face indicated that he’d likely seen the inside of a correctional institution. The strung-out blonde with the meth sores that walked past him with a QT bag in hand indicated his profession as a barrio souteneur. He sized Bradshaw up, equal parts assessing his threat level and gauging his interest as a potential consumer. Bradshaw didn’t shy from his gaze, and instead gave him a polite nod. The procurer returned the gesture, then turned his attention to lighting a cigarette.
When Bradshaw reached the room, he slid the key into the door, stepped off to the side, and surreptitiously drew his M&P. He disengaged the deadbolt, removed the key, and gave the door a gentle push. As it swung open, Bradshaw quickly stepped past the fatal funnel and scanned the darkness, letting his Trijicon tritium sights lead the way. He sensed nobody, and he closed and locked the door behind him. Bradshaw flipped the lights on, scanned and assessed again, then moved to the bathroom at the rear. Only when that was cleared did he holster the pistol.
Bradshaw grabbed a chair from a table at the front of the room and jammed it beneath the doorknob. He didn’t like the room, as it only offered one shared mode of ingress and egress. The likel
ihood of Hawthorne taking another crack at him solo was slim to none. At that point, Hawthorne had all the required pretense to bring in the rank-and-file officers in a completely legal manhunt. While Bradshaw had no issue with killing the quartet of off-the-reservation federal agents, there was no way he was going to drop the hammer on an honest cop. That meant he needed to form an escape plan. The longer he stayed in the room, the closer he inched towards discovery and a barricaded stand-off.
After the room was locked down, Bradshaw inspected the shower. It wasn’t five-star clean, but he’d utilized dirtier facilities during his Army tenure. He removed his hygiene kit from his bug-out bag, grabbed a hotel towel, and stripped down. Bradshaw took a five-minute shower, lathering up the hot spots and rinsing off. He dried off, got dressed, and inventoried the bug-out bag.
In his first years at the Regiment, Bradshaw never gave much thought to an urban bug-out bag. He’d developed a traditional rural bag where the plan would be to flee to the sticks if natural or civil catastrophe struck. It wasn’t until his time in RRC where Bradshaw realized the need for an urban counterpart. The purpose of the urban bug-out bag was to flee the country and reach a country without an extradition treaty with the US.
A brother Ranger who had since gone to the Army Special Mission Unit was the one who helped him build it. It contained a set of false identification made under the radar at the Unit’s support section, $1,000 in cash, three debit cards registered under the false name with access to off-shore bank accounts, a ZTE Z233 TracFone, a hard case full of SIM cards for various nations, a change of clothing, the hygiene kit, a handheld police scanner, a first-aid kit, and an assortment of trail mix, beef jerky, and protein bars.
Fault Lines Page 34
