Myrmidon

by David Wellington

  “You started out with something like manners,” Belcher went on. “You come here alone, you don’t threaten anyone. Not what I would expect from the federals. But then you bring along one of those. You come acting like a man, like a real man, but backed up by a robot—­the very symbol of the government we despise. You understand that, right? I just bet you do. When I was a soldier, back in the last century, we understood that men fought men face-­to-­face. You put your arms up against the other fellow’s, you put yourself in jeopardy, to prove you had the right on your side. The government today, they’d just as soon use drones. Sit in a room half a world away sipping coffee and blow away the bad guys on a computer screen. Like a damned video game. Because that’s what war is to your government, isn’t it? Just a game.”

  “I took it pretty seriously myself, in Afghanistan,” Chapel said.

  “Oh, you’re a veteran, are you? From the look of you, I’d say air force, am I right?”

  Chapel wasn’t sure if Belcher was trying to insult him. “Army. Just like you. Except I was in the Rangers.” He wanted to point out that he hadn’t been dishonorably discharged, either, but he didn’t want to go down that path.

  Belcher nodded in appreciation. “First boots on the ground. There’s a proud tradition there. But now we have these things.” He pointed one finger up at the drone. “All right, point taken—­it’s no game. No, warfare by robot is business. The business of control. Every day, your government works to take a little more control of how Americans live their lives. These robots let them do so with impunity.”

  “Mr. Belcher, I’m sorry, but I didn’t come here to talk philosophy or politics,” Chapel tried, trying to steer the conversation back to the guns.

  But, apparently, Belcher felt the need to deliver a sermon, first. “Do you know they’re pushing to get every child in this country fingerprinted before the fifth grade? Oh, they say it’s so they can help find them if they get abducted. You and I know the real reason, though. The same reason they fingerprinted us when we signed on.”

  Chapel frowned. “So they could identify our bodies if we were killed in action?”

  “So that if we—­or those children—­ever commit a crime in the future, they can scoop them up right away. They’ve got databases on everything we do, every time we use a telephone, every e-­mail we send—­”

  “If we could just talk about Favorov,” Chapel tried.

  But Belcher was on a roll. “This town was my father’s dream. That’s why it bears his name. He wanted to create a world where men—­yes, white men—­could be truly free. Where no one had to watch them all the time like disapproving parents. All the parents here love their children. They believe in them.”

  “Please, Mr. Belcher, I—­”

  “There are over three hundred kids here,” Belcher said, “many of them just babies. If you send in your jackbooted thugs to take these alleged guns back by force, can you really guarantee their safety?”

  Ah. Interesting. Chapel saw, suddenly, exactly why Belcher had felt the need to rhapsodize on freedom and control. He’d put Chapel in a corner where if he insisted that Belcher turn over the guns, he was going to have to take responsibility for any children who were hurt in the process. Which was also a way of saying, if a little obliquely, that the town of Kendred would fight to the last man to keep the guns. Without admitting to anything criminal or making any threats.

  Impressive, Chapel thought. The man was a born negotiator. But, luckily, Chapel had his own cards to play. “I can guarantee nobody is hurt here, babies or children or adults, if you’re willing to cooperate. If you and I hash this thing out, just two men talking face-­to-­face. I can also guarantee you that I’m your last chance to avoid an armed confrontation with a government that can blow this town off the map without putting a single soldier at risk. We don’t need to take the guns back, Mr. Belcher. We need to destroy them. I’m here to hold out an olive branch in the name of limiting collateral damage. But if I fail—­if I can’t reach an agreement with you—­then we come back with the sword.”

  “Good,” Belcher said.

  “Good?”

  “I like to know what game I’m playing, you see.” He reached over and slapped Chapel on the arm in a playful manner. “I like to know what’s at stake. Come and walk with me—­we’ll head over to the warehouses, and maybe we can finish this up before suppertime.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “So, this Favorov guy you keep mentioning,” Belcher said.

  Chapel cut him off. “There’s no need to play coy. I have an eyewitness who puts you at his house on numerous occasions over the last decade. I know you know who I’m talking about.”

  Belcher nodded. He was walking briskly, and Chapel could tell he was in good physical shape. He was taking his time, though. As they passed by the little white houses, he paused to wave at the ­people inside and give them a smile. To reassure them, perhaps, that everything was fine—­that even though they’d been told for years that federal agents were bloodthirsty killers who would destroy their families, that this man here was under control, and Belcher was still in charge. “How did he die?” he asked.

  Chapel frowned. “In prison. He was murdered by another inmate. We’re still not sure if it was the Russian mafia or one of yours.”

  “One of mine?” Belcher asked over his shoulder. He glanced up at Charlie and Andre, who were following at a discreet distance, just out of earshot.

  “Aryan Nation,” Chapel said.

  “I have nothing to do with those thugs,” Belcher insisted.

  “You recruit from their ranks,” Chapel said. “At least a third of the male population of the SAF were Aryan Nation members while they were in prison.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have any connection with that group. And believe it or not, Agent, I don’t. They come sniffing around every once in a while, looking for a handout, looking for a place to hide a fugitive, looking to buy or sell guns and bombs.” Belcher shook his head. “We drive them off without being very ambiguous about it.”

  Chapel wanted to growl in frustration. “So you just help former members of the AN pick up the pieces of their lives and get a fresh start. Great. Why do you need three thousand AK-­47s to do that?”

  “Assuming we even have such guns, and I’m not admitting to anything,” Belcher told him, “we have a right to defend ourselves.”

  “Against what? Coyotes and grizzly bears?”

  “Against government interference, maybe,” Belcher said. “My organization breaks no laws. We’ve never harmed a human being. But your government still spies on us. It treats us like domestic terrorists. They’ve been trying to infiltrate our ranks with undercover agents. All because they don’t agree with our beliefs. Wouldn’t that make you a little paranoid?”

  “I’m not here to justify the actions of the federal government,” Chapel said. “I’m here to get those guns.”

  Belcher laughed. “You do know that for free white men like us, that’s pretty much our biggest nightmare? That the government would roll in and take away our weapons?”

  “I don’t want all of your guns. Nobody’s trying to take away that shotgun you’re holding, or Andre’s collection back there. I just want the AK-­47s. The guns you bought—­illegally—­from Ygor Favorov.”

  Belcher nodded agreeably. He stepped forward around the side of a house, and a huge smile crossed his face. He raised his free arm and gestured for Chapel to come see what he was looking at.

  Around the corner, in the front yard of yet another white house, a bunch of children had gathered. They were sitting on the ground with big sheets of brightly colored posterboard and jars of paint. They seemed to be making signs. The children, boys and girls between maybe five and twelve, were incredibly intent on what they were doing, bent over with looks of utter concentration on their faces. Chapel took a step or two closer until he could read what the
y were painting on the signs.

  MISCEGENATION IS A CRIME AGAINST GOD

  NO MONGREL BABIES

  RACE MIXING HURTS EVERYONE

  Chapel’s eyes went wide in horror.

  “You might be wondering what this is about,” Belcher said. “You see, there’s a man up in Pueblo, a judge in fact, who is getting married to a Latina woman next week. We’re going to send some of our children up there to stand outside the church and let them know how we feel about that.”

  Chapel thought he might throw up. He turned to look at Belcher—­

  —­and found the man already watching his face. Looking to see how he would react.

  Chapel couldn’t help himself. “That might be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  Belcher nodded, as if confirming something he’d already thought. “Even I have to admit it’s a little tasteless. But necessary.”

  “Necessary? You think it’s necessary to send children—­little children—­to destroy the happiness of a ­couple just because their ancestors came from different parts of the world?”

  Belcher said nothing. He just stood there with that giant smile, looking like the patriarch of some proud family.

  “I don’t even want to look at this,” Chapel said. He turned away and started walking—­at his own pace this time—­toward the warehouses.

  “Agent Chapel—­” Belcher said, racing after him.

  Chapel spun around and stared at him. Now it was his turn to stay silent while he read Belcher’s face.

  “The First Amendment to the Constitution,” Belcher said, like a teacher laying out a lesson for a slow student, “guarantees our right to assemble and protest. But right now—­you’re not thinking about rights or about freedoms, are you?”

  “No,” Chapel admitted.

  “No, you’re thinking how much you’d like to call in a fleet of bombers and level this place. Am I right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Belcher nodded. “We get that a lot. Now do you see why we might feel the need to defend ourselves?”

  Chapel shook his head. “Belcher, you can talk about freedom and rights all you want. It doesn’t matter.” The warehouses were just ahead, across a ­couple more streets. Chapel headed for them as fast as he could walk. “That’s not what this is about. I have a job to do here, and it’s to get those guns. We know you bought them. We know you have them here. We even have a pretty good idea where you’re hiding them. I am your absolutely last chance to save your repulsive organization, and if you don’t start dealing with me seriously, you’re going to blow this chance, too.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Chapel crossed one last dirt road and came to the first of the warehouses, a tall, brick building that dwarfed the white houses. A real road led up to its loading bays, presumably so trucks could come in and take on shipments of machine parts. Chapel hurried across the pavement and climbed up onto a waist-­high platform in front of a rolling door. “Open this up,” he said.

  “All right,” Belcher said. He climbed up beside Chapel and pressed a button on the side of the door. “It’s never locked. No thieves here in Kendred, after all.”

  Chapel shook his head and waited for the door to open. Beyond lay the interior of the warehouse, a shadowy, cool space lined with row after row of shelves. A wide space in the middle of the room was more open but still partially filled, with big wooden crates.

  Chapel recognized those crates. They were big enough to hold twenty rifles each. Stamped on the side of each one in Cyrillic characters was the legend AVTOMAT KALASHNIKOVA. He’d seen crates exactly like them in Ygor Favorov’s basement. They were the crates he’d come to find.

  “This is it, Belcher. This is where we make our deal. Or I leave here, and I don’t come back—­but a ­couple hundred of my friends, those jackbooted thugs that scare you so much, come in my place.”

  “All right,” Belcher said.

  “All right? You’re ready to hear my terms?”

  “I am.” Belcher looked surprisingly calm.

  Chapel tried not to let it ruffle him. “Fine. Then here’s the deal. We take all the guns out of here and destroy them. We’ll try to do it in a polite fashion, but there will have to be inspectors in here verifying we got every last rifle, and that’ll take some time. You agree not to harass or deter our ­people, and you don’t hold out on us.”

  “That’s fine,” Belcher said. “What do I get in return?”

  Chapel shook his head. “Much as I don’t like it, you get a free pass.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “No prosecution. At least, not for gun charges—­we don’t send you to jail for illegally obtaining the rifles. We pretend like you never bought them, and they were never here.”

  Belcher lifted his free arm and let it fall again to his side. “Doesn’t seem much in the way of compensation. Those guns weren’t cheap.”

  “You must have known where they were coming from when you bought them. We’re not going to pay you back for them,” Chapel told him. “That’s ludicrous.”

  “Maybe not fair market value, I understand,” Belcher said, nodding. “But I should get at least a little something for my cooperation, shouldn’t I?”

  “I’m not here to bargain. I’m here to tell you how it’s going to happen, that’s all. Either you let me take those crates out of here quietly, or we blow them to smithereens.”

  Belcher rubbed his chin as if he were thinking it over. “Those crates? You can have those crates. I’ve got no use for the crates, now.”

  Chapel’s heart sank in his chest. He ran over to the stack of crates and pushed back its lid. As he’d thought, the crate was empty. He went to the next crate over and lifted its lid. Empty.

  “Very funny,” Chapel said. “Where are the rifles? In another warehouse? Or no—­I get it now. The reason you showed me the children. You’ve got the guns stashed in all those houses, don’t you? So we can’t destroy them without putting your children at risk. That’s a pretty lousy move.”

  Belcher shook his head. “No, not there, either. You can look if you like. You can look inside any building in Kendred, and I guarantee you won’t find any AK-­47 rifles.”

  Chapel bit back the first words that came to mind, most of which were obscene. “You knew it would come to this. That we would come looking for the rifles. You thought this would be your chance for a big payday. Am I right?”

  “Afraid not,” Belcher said. “Now, I’ve heard you out. I’ve heard what you’re selling. You want to hear my counteroffer?”

  Someone moved behind Chapel—­he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He spun around and saw Andre and Charlie back there, standing between him and the door of the loading dock. Andre had his hunting rifle up, the barrel pointed right at Chapel’s face. Charlie was down in a fighter’s crouch, ready to grab Chapel if he tried to make a run for it.

  He heard a metallic click behind him and turned again, this time to see Belcher loading shells into the shotgun he carried.

  “My offer is this,” Belcher said. “You take out your sidearm and lay it carefully on the floor, or we fill you full of holes right here.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Chapel had to admit when he’d been beaten. He saw it all at once—­how Belcher had manipulated him. “Nice. You got me angry, got me frustrated. Got me to stop thinking through every move. You knew if you pushed my buttons enough—­and gave me crates to play with—­I would come in here. Under this roof.”

  “Where your little drone friend can’t see you,” Belcher confirmed. “I believe I asked you to relinquish your weapon.”

  Chapel nodded. Very slowly, very carefully he drew his pistol and held it up by the barrel. Bending low, he placed it on the concrete floor.

  “Kick it over to me,” Belcher said. “No theatrics, now.”

&nb
sp; Chapel did as he was told. The pistol skittered and scraped over the concrete. Belcher stepped forward and put his foot on top of it, leaving it where it lay.

  “Charlie,” he said, “search the agent. Make sure he doesn’t have any other weapons or listening devices.”

  The big, tattooed man was thorough and quick about it. He took Chapel’s wallet and the keys to the rental SUV and stuffed them in his own pockets. When he got to Chapel’s shoulder, he grunted in surprise. “Something wrong with his arm,” he said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just a prosthesis,” Chapel told him.

  Belcher raised an eyebrow. “Pretty convincing. Does it have a built-­in microphone? Does it launch tiny little missiles from the fingers?”

  “No. It just does what my other arm does.”

  Belcher nodded. “Let him keep it for now. Agent, why don’t you have a seat on the floor there and put your hands on your head.”

  Chapel complied, maintaining eye contact with Belcher the whole time. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

  Belcher ignored him for the moment. Once Chapel was sitting down, he bent over and retrieved Chapel’s pistol, checked the safety, and put it in his pocket. “Andre,” he said, “I think you know what comes next. Go and tell the others.”

  Chapel couldn’t see Andre’s face—­he was standing behind Chapel—­but he could hear the stammer in Andre’s voice. “It’s . . . it’s time? Really?”

  “This is what we’ve been waiting for. Go on, now. Charlie can back me up here.”

  “Hot damn,” Andre said. Chapel could hear him run out of the warehouse, his boots slapping on the concrete floor.

  “This won’t work,” Chapel said.

  Belcher nodded but didn’t reply.

  “If I don’t come out of this warehouse in an hour—­and make the right signal that the drone can see—­the whole weight of the US military is going to come crushing down on your little racist town, Belcher. You wanted to keep your kids safe? This is the worst thing you could have done. But it’s not too late. You can—­”