“A few years ago, even before 9-11, the FBI bought thousands of brand new Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine guns, right from the factory in Germany. They made a special production run in ten millimeter, just for our feds. Nobody else has ten millimeter sub guns. Don’t ask me why, but the FBI was hot on ten millimeter for a while. It’s a great caliber but it never really caught on with civilians, because it’s a little too hot for most pistols. It’s sort of a .40 caliber magnum. Hey, there’s another shell case!” Ranya scooped up several more empty brass shells in succession in the same area until she had collected five.
Brad said, “If these guns are so unique, isn’t it almost like leaving a calling card? It wouldn’t be very professional for a killer to leave that kind of brass around, would it?”
“Who ever said the feds were professional? Remember 9-11, and all the warnings that they ignored? Besides, who gets to do all the forensic analysis? They do! Do you really think the feds ever worry about leaving evidence around? They don’t care about evidence; they can do anything they want with it. Do you remember Waco?”
“I read about it.”
“Well, some guys that used to come into the store had some books and videos about it. It’s really amazing what the feds got away with. Like the sheet metal front doors, they were critical evidence, absolutely critical. They’d prove who shot first by which way the bullet holes were going. Guess what? The FBI ‘lost’ the doors. Lost them! Big steel doors! They have pictures of them at Waco, after the fire, and the FBI ‘lost’ them. Can you imagine that? Lots of evidence that goes to the FBI lab gets ‘lost.’ And what they don’t lose, the FBI labs get to work on it until it comes out just the way they want it.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I’m guessing the killer used a government-issue ten millimeter MP-5 for a good reason: because it’d already be set up with a night vision scope and a sound suppressor. The feds have all the best gear; they use suppressors all the time. They even buy some submachine guns with suppressors built right in. And the killer wouldn’t have any trouble tracking my father across the yard if he was using a night scope. A silenced submachine gun with a night scope…my father never had a chance. He was an easy target.”
She stared across the fence, imagining the government assassin aiming at her Doberman as the dog streaked toward him. Armalite could have cleared the waist-high fence in a bound, but killing the dog would have been simple using a night scope. And then her father came out of the house with his pump shotgun, heading for the back of the store. He would have been moving right across the killer’s line of fire, just fifty yards away from this very spot. The entire fatal exchange unfolded in her mind like a movie. Her grief and shock were still present, but a new kind of quiet rage was flowing into her heart on top of the sadness. She stood behind the fence with her arms folded, staring at the four tiny yellow flags that marked the location of her father’s murder.
After an awkward minute, Brad said, “Ranya, did you ever hear of the Black Water Rod and Gun Club?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Well you’re not going to believe this, but Thursday afternoon when I drove back to my boat, the FBI was there waiting for me. By my boat. You know why? Because I was at Dixie Hardware in Highpoint on Tuesday morning, and someone filmed everybody there with a hidden camera. They were looking for accomplices of Jimmy Shifflett in Highpoint. I’m not kidding. I was in the pictures from the hardware store.
“So Thursday the FBI came to my boat and showed me a bunch of pictures of men from around here. Here’s the kicker: they think the Black Water Rod and Gun Club is a militia front, and Shifflett was part of it. Really, that’s what they think.”
“That’s a joke,” Ranya retorted. “Anybody from around here knows that’s a joke! The rod and gun club is just what it says it is, it’s just a bunch of local rednecks who like to tear around the woods on ATV’s, fish and shoot and drink beer. And mostly drink beer! They’re no more a ‘militia’ than I’m G.I. Jane. It’s got to be a joke; somebody must be goofing on the FBI, feeding them that kind of bullshit.”
“I don’t think so. They’re convinced Shifflett was one of them. They think the gun club might have helped Shifflett do the Stadium Massacre.”
“That’s a crock! A total crock!”
“The FBI sure doesn’t think so. They wanted me to join the gun club, just because I’m a shooter. They put the squeeze on me, big time. They want me to rat out the gun club and be an informant. They threatened to freeze my bank accounts and take my passport if I didn’t cooperate! They had me meet them at Lester’s last night. They think I can just walk up and join the gun club, like it’s joining the Elks or something, just because I’m a shooter.”
“The FBI doesn’t have a clue. So what happened?”
“I went and I had a few beers with them in the back room of Lester’s, and I made sure they brushed me off. I had to go in case the feds were watching, or getting a report from somebody else. You can’t just tell the FBI to go to hell, not when they’ve got your bank accounts and your passport in their hands. Believe me, all I want to do is get my boat finished and get the hell out of here before it all gets any crazier, and now I’ve got the FBI on my back.”
9
A black-and-chrome motorcycle idled slowly down State Road 32 in front of Freedom Arms, stopped for moment, then bumped onto the dirt side road and rolled up toward them, its engine rumbling out the staccato signature of the Harley Davidson. The rider looked for a hard spot to put down his kick stand, then climbed off and walked straight to Ranya who began crying again as they embraced. He was an old man to be riding a big Harley, wearing a sleeveless denim jacket over a black sweat shirt, with a small visorless black helmet and gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses. The man pulled off the helmet, revealing short-cropped gray hair. Brad stood by feeling awkward, and turned away from them as they held each other. The man was between Brad’s height and Ranya’s, maybe about five ten, and seemed to be in good shape for his age.
Ranya and the old biker separated, and she made the introductions. “Brad, meet Phil Carson. He’s an old family friend, kind of like an uncle. Phil, this is Brad Fallon. I just met Brad today. He’s been helping me. He buried my dobie Armalite for me.”
“They killed your dog too?”
“Yes.”
“Those goddamn bastards…”
The two men shook hands cautiously and checked each other out, the weathered fifty-something biker and the young man in jeans and an ocean blue polo shirt which matched his eyes.
“I’ve seen you around; you’re fixing up a sailboat on Sodermilk’s old farm, right?”
“That’s me. You know the place?”
“I sure do, I almost bought part of it once.”
Ranya asked, “Phil, didn’t you used to do some ocean sailing?”
“Where’d you hear that? Your father? Yeah, I did some sailing, a long, long time ago, but I got it out of my system. So Brad, you’re the guy from Alaska who shook ‘em up at Mineral Springs last month? I heard you came within one point of knocking off the best open-sight rifle shot in Virginia and the Carolinas.”
Brad looked directly at the man. “It seems like my life’s an open book around here.”
“Don’t get your feathers ruffled son. Suffolk’s a big county, but the serious shooters are a small group, just like any place. And let’s face it, your story’s more interesting than most, coming from Alaska to buy a boat and all that. These days, people pay a lot of attention when somebody new shows up with a big interest in shooting. Folks are paranoid, and they should be. Just look at what happened here last night.”
Ranya said, “So you already heard about it?”
“Well, I wasn’t just riding by. Sure, I got a call. So now tell me, what are you youngsters doing standing way over here outside the fence? I know there’s got to be a reason, so tell me what’s really going on. Come on Ranya, don’t hold out on Uncle Phil if you found something.”
The old biker had a warm smile, and for a moment it a
llowed Brad to see him as he must have looked as a younger man.
She handed him an empty ten-millimeter shell case, its head stamp facing up. Carson had to squint hard to make it out, holding it at arm’s length. “Ten mill. I knew it; I knew it, the feds! So your father was shot over there by the little flags?”
Ranya nodded yes.
“So that’s forty or fifty yards from here, at midnight, and almost pitch black. The moon didn’t rise until after one AM, I checked. Somebody shot him at that range, in the dark, and nobody around here heard the shots. What’s that tell you? You already know what it means, don’t you Ranya?”
“Yeah. Ten millimeter with these marks on the brass and the dent on the lip means the ‘FBI Special Edition’ MP-5. A night scope on top, and a sound suppressor. I’m guessing subsonic loads, for no sonic crack. It was the feds all the way,” said Ranya.
“That’s about how I already figured it, and as far as I’m concerned the brass you found proves it. They’re pretty slick: they used the home boys to do the dirty work with the gasoline out by the road, and take the rap if it goes sour. Meanwhile they’re waiting in the tree line for Joe—for your father to come out. They knew he’d be coming out, and they were waiting in ambush.”
Brad asked him, “How did you know it was the ‘home boys’?”
“I’ve got my friends on the force. When I heard the news I made some calls. Who else makes gasoline bombs out of 32-ounce malt liquor bottles? You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out. But now you know something the cops don’t know: that’s the ten-millimeter secret Ranya’s got in her pocket.” He paused, suddenly uncomfortable. “And I know something nobody knows, nobody at all. I know who killed him.”
“What?” Brad and Ranya exclaimed at the same time. “Who? How can you know that?” asked Ranya.
“Because I think I talked to him right inside your store Thursday afternoon. The BATF came by for a compliance check, four of them in a black Chevy Suburban. One of them did all the talking at the counter, a BATF agent, a real asshole, a big crew-cut gorilla with a Yankee accent like maybe Boston or New York. He wanted all the 4473’s from the last week. He was having a fit about your father selling semi-auto rifles last week after they passed the law. Turns out it’s not illegal to sell them, not until next Tuesday, but the BATF guy got all bent out of shape. He took the 4473’s right out the door, no pretense at all about just copying down information for an investigation. We had some words… I blew up like a big asshole and gave him a major ration of shit…
“I feel like crap Ranya, you don’t know how bad I feel, I feel like I set your father up, like I set the feds onto him. If I hadn’t of pissed that BATF guy off so bad, your dad might be alive. They might have just burned the store and left it at that.” Phil Carson was speaking quietly now, staring down at his boots with his hands at his sides. “I had to tell you, I had to tell you that it’s my fault.”
“Shit… Shit… Well, geez…” Ranya was crying again. “God, this is so messed up. Phil, you can’t blame yourself…and you don’t know if they shot him on purpose, if they planned it. They might have had the same kind of security at all the arsons, and my father just walked into their line of fire, they just saw him coming with a shotgun and... Oh shit.” She sat down heavily on the ground, staring blankly.
“Well anyway, I’m sorry if I had anything to do with it. I know I feel like I did.” Carson stood next to the cedar tree, looking over the limb the assassin had most likely used to steady his weapon while he shot Joe Bardiwell. Brad was the outsider again, his back to them, leaning against the wooden fence post. All of them were staring out across the field to the little square of yellow flags which marked the burnt spot where Joe Bardiwell had been murdered.
Carson took a deep breath and sighed. “Aw hell… You know, a war’s coming. I can feel it. Thirty years and I haven’t killed anybody, and as God is my witness I had some good reasons to! But now it feels like it’s all coming around again, like a big wheel… Only this time I’m just an old guy with bad knees and weak eyes. Man oh man, I sure wish I was your age and had eyes like you youngsters again. Now that I finally know what’s going on, I’m just about too damn old and busted up to do anything about it. I guess this is going to have to be your generation’s fight.”
Brad turned around and faced this stranger, wondering where he was coming from with his war talk. “I can’t speak for ‘my generation’, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s not my fight. I’m sorry, but I just want to get on my boat and go travel for a while, and see the rest of the world.”
“You’re just going to take off? Now? Damn. You seemed like maybe you’d be a fighter to me, being a crack shot and all, but I guess you never can tell. And if somebody like you isn’t going to fight back, I guess there’s not much hope that the purple-haired nipple-ring crowd is either.”
“Look, Phil, I’m sorry, but America…it went off the tracks a long time ago. I can’t fix it, and I’m getting out while I can.”
Phil Carson paused, looking between Brad and Ranya. She was still sitting on the ground, staring across her property. “If America goes down the tubes, where are you going to run to? Where will you find the kind of freedom we had here? Argentina? Brazil? That’s a laugh. Or will you just keep running? Because if America goes down, then the whole world goes down. And then there’s not going to be anywhere safe to hide, not anywhere. Not for years, maybe not in our lifetimes.”
Brad said nothing. He knew the old biker was grieving and bitter, and there was already enough bitterness and sorrow to go around today without adding any of his own. He certainly didn’t want to argue with an old friend of Ranya’s in front of her, when she had already suffered so much.
“Ah, what the hell,” Carson said. “Maybe you’re right Brad, get out while you can. You’re young, you want to explore the world. We all did at your age… I guess I’m just an angry old man, and my clock’s ticking down. I’ve only got time for one more battle, maybe one more war. It’s just a damn shame we won’t have a young man that can shoot like you on our side.”
“Am I missing something?” asked Brad. “What are you talking about? Another civil war?”
“Hell yes another civil war, or maybe a dirty war like they have in South America. What do you think that bullshit act in the stadium was about? What do you think these gun store attacks are about? You think they just happened? Somebody, the feds, maybe the BATF, I don’t know who, but somebody’s trying real hard to pick a fight. It’s like they’re standing between two armies shooting both ways. They’re trying to start a war, and I don’t know why. Maybe so they can crack down and bring in martial law, I haven’t figured that part out. But somebody sure as hell’s trying to start a war in this country. Liberal against conservative, city against country, pro-gun against gun control, pro-government against pro-freedom, black against white against brown, Christian against Muslim… There’s no other explanation that makes sense.”
Brad replied, “But every poll says most people believe Shifflett had militia help. They see the militias behind all of this, that’s what the news people are all saying.” Brad didn’t believe the polls or the media; he just wanted to hear the old biker’s reaction.
Carson snorted. “Let’s face it Brad, most people in this country are stupid and getting stupider by the year. The public schools are practically designed to crank out stupid people! Stupid people will believe any stupid story; stupid people are easy to control. You already know that. I mean, we all know the militia story is horseshit. It’s just nice easy-to-understand baby food to feed the morons, to get them to support the gun ban and all the rest that’s coming. And we’re outnumbered; we’re way outnumbered by the morons.”
Ranya stood up again and turned to join their discussion. “That’s true, sure we’re outnumbered, but don’t forget one thing: we have all the guns. The nanny-state sheeple-types hate guns. They’ve been brain washed for years, so even though they out number us, they can’t hurt us beca
use they’ve basically got no weapons. It’s the government itself that’s going to be the other side in this war. They have guns too, all the guns they need. It’s the government that’s going to come after us, and the sheeple are going to cheer them on every step of the way.”
“How in the hell did we wind up on the other side from our own government?” asked Brad. “That’s just about the worst part of it. That’s why I’m getting out while I can.”
“Brad, you were in the military, weren’t you?” asked Carson.
“Four years in the Navy.”
“You remember the oath we took when they swore us in? ‘Raise your right hand’ and all that? Well we sure didn’t swear to defend the federal government, or any damn government. No, we swore to defend the Constitution, from all enemies, foreign and domestic. So now is when it gets sticky: what if ‘domestic enemies’ of the Constitution are running the government? Do real patriots roll over and play dead, or fight back? That’s the big question, because for sure anybody who resists isn’t going to win any popularity contests with the sheeple.
“And you can bet the government’s going to call anybody who resists either a traitor or a terrorist. They can just make up any damn laws they want now, because we’ve got a Supreme Court that’ll say two plus two equals five hundred, as long as it’s politically correct. And then they expect us to just salute smartly and go along with the program, while they tear up the Constitution! They think they can just say ‘war on terror’ and ‘national security’ and everybody will just shut up and obey orders…well I’m just about finished obeying orders. There’s some lines that won’t be crossed, and one might be coming next Tuesday at twelve noon.
“Listen you two, I’m sorry I got all worked up, but it just breaks my heart to see what’s happening to this country. It breaks my heart to see good men like your father killed by our own government. Now I guess everybody has to decide for themselves what to do about it… Ranya, if there’s anything you need, just give me a call, and let me know about the services for your father, I want to be there.” Carson handed her an old business card with several numbers penciled in on the back, and she put it into a small compartment on the outside of her black daypack. “One of these numbers will get me. If you need anything at all, just give me a shout, all right?” He gave her another hug, then held her by her shoulders at arm’s-length and looked at her.
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