# # #
It was less than fifteen minutes before a wave of FBI agents and Detroit Police poured over the back wall. A few more entered the rail yard from the front of the station, including James and Mandy.
“Where’s Judy?” Charlie asked.
“She’s safe. Still sitting in your car and protecting it,” Mandy said with a tight smile. “Are you okay?”
“I shot somebody,” Charlie said, trying to shake off the guilt building in her chest. “It’s becoming a bad habit.” She looked up at Mandy ruefully.
“I’m okay, too,” Don said. “In case anyone cares. Mack shot that asshole to save my life.”
James and Mandy nodded.
“Did you find Robbie?” Don asked.
“No. He’s not in the train station. We’ve searched every inch of the ground floor, and he didn’t have time to access the upper floors.”
“He said he had a bomb in his backpack.”
“He might have. He left a very rudimentary IED in his bike helmet. It was crude, but still dangerous. We detonated it safely,” James said. “We’re looking at security footage in the area now to see if we can track Robbie.”
“Did the bicycle have explosives?” Don asked.
“Yes. Very powerful devices.”
“What about the Turks?” Charlie asked.
“We rounded up a bunch of them at home. A car full of guys was also parked near the bridge ready to see the explosions. Croft was in that car. My guess is the crossover members between the Turks and Stormfront knew what was happening today. Most of the Turks were still waiting on the Sunday Surprise. We caught a few more guys in black cars with active bombs. We were on them before they could move, but there were a few casualties,” James said in the FBI language that meant people were dead.
“Is the church safe now?”
“We’re sweeping inside and out again, but we think it’s safe. We scrambled all the radio signals as soon as we arrived this morning. That’s why none of the other devices were detonated.”
A medical tech walked over and insisted on examining Don’s nose. He protested loudly, but finally let the pony-tailed young woman lead him over to her ambulance. Charlie watched as another EMT crew lifted Spader’s covered body into an ambulance.
“He was a bad man, Charlie,” James said.
Mandy joined Charlie on the berm and took her hand.
“What about Constantine?” Charlie asked.
“Oh yes. We have him, too,” James said. “He was leaving his apartment building with a suitcase when two agents took him into custody. He was known to this paramilitary group he led as the Angel. You know, Gabriel, the archangel.”
“I need to talk to Mom,” Charlie said.
Chapter 34
Don went home to Rita and the kids with his nose packed and a white bandage over his face. James loaned him a clean shirt and personally drove him to Hamtramck. James promised a visit to the Mack team on Monday.
Charlie, Mandy and Judy gathered in the lobby of Ernestine’s building. Judy insisted on being there for the awkward conversation with Charlie’s mother. The staff at the front desk were all too willing to tell Charlie about their role in the arrest of Mr. Gabriel Constantine on the fourth floor. One of them had signaled the FBI agent when Constantine exited the elevators. That agent had joined two others in confronting Constantine in the parking lot. According to Gloria, Constantine struggled a bit before they shoved him into a dark sedan.
“I never liked that man, Miss Charlene,” Gloria said. “He always seemed off to me, you know?”
Ernestine opened the door with what Charlie recognized as a very embarrassed smile. Charlie moved forward and kissed her mother’s cheek.
“Come on in, you all,” Ernestine said, moving away from the door and receiving hugs from Mandy and Judy. Ernestine gave Judy a wink.
Mandy headed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, and Judy pulled out goodies purchased from Mexican Village, including chicken enchiladas, salsa and chips, and beef burritos. There was also plenty of beans and rice. The women ate and chatted for almost an hour before Ernestine herself brought up Constantine.
“Judy called me this afternoon to tell me about Gabriel. She was very, very kind.”
“What?” Charlie said, glaring at Judy. “I was going to . . .”
“Do you know how hard it is to talk to your mother about a no-good man?” Judy asked. “No. Ernestine needed a friend, someone with a little more emotional distance, to tell her this crazy news.”
“Judy’s right, Charlene. I don’t want to give you another reason to be disappointed for me. Judy and I trashed Gabriel. Called him names, and . . .”
“And I put a Polish hex on him,” Judy said, pleased with herself. “Good riddance.”
# # #
The Mack team was somber Monday morning. Tamela didn’t know quite what to say when Don arrived with the wide bandage across his nose. Instead of entering the office like a marauder, he quietly opened the door, nodded to Tamela, and moved to his desk. Judy had arrived an hour before, walking stiffly, saying her bruised leg was still bothering her.
Charlie didn’t have any physical ailments, but her first call of the day had been to her therapist. She needed to discuss her sadness. The last time she’d shot and killed a man—during their Auto Show case—she was in therapy for six months.
Charlie, Don, and Judy stayed at their desks quietly with a minimum of conversation, doing paperwork, catching up on missed calls, and eating the lunches they’d each brought in.
James arrived at 1:30 with a tray of cookies. Tamela made a pot of coffee, and they gathered around the conference table.
“How’s the nose, Don?” James asked.
“Sore as hell. But Avalon Bakery cookies make it feel better. Did Charlie tell you I love these?”
“She didn’t have to tell me. Next time I’ll bring you Lebanese pastry, too.” When his smile faded, Charlie knew James was ready to talk business. “We found out where Robbie went on Saturday. He went to the Pashias’ house with the bomb in his backpack.”
“Oh no,” Charlie said, horrified.
“It’s okay. No one was harmed. He tried to trigger the device, which, thankfully, didn’t work.”
“What happened?” Judy asked.
“When he escaped the train station, he flagged a cab on Vernor Hwy. that took him to a bike shop near Farmington Hills. He bought a new bike, in cash, and rode to the Pashias’ home. He put his backpack on the porch, called Kamal Pashia’s number, and told him to come out of the house to fight,” James said. “He’d been at their home before, you know.”
“For the study groups,” Charlie said.
“Right. Kamal opened the door, and Robbie used a phone to try to detonate the bomb. When it didn’t work, Kamal caught up with Robbie and kicked his ass.”
“Again,” Judy said.
“Mrs. Pashia called me, and we got over there to disarm the bomb, but Robbie got away. He took off on the bike and so far we haven’t been able to find him.”
“What a waste. He’s a smart kid,” Judy said.
“He really is,” Don said, sadly.
“We’ll get him. We have to get him. We don’t need anybody with his hacker skills working against us.”
“What happens next with the task force?” Charlie asked.
“Commander Coleman is moving into the lead. She’ll keep it going. We’ll have seats, and so will DHS. There’s no shortage of cases to investigate. This is only the beginning of these groups. Croft has direct ties to state legislators. Constantine has had a US Congressman at his compound for a hunting and fishing vacation. When we examined Spader’s home in East Lansing, we found bank statements with deposits to accounts all across the US, Europe, and South America. He also had records on another five groups in Michigan. Some were paramilitary organizations, like Constantine’s people. Unfortunately, these men—and more and more women—are more often than not just plain folks. Office workers, teachers, babysitter
s, dog-walkers, retirees, employees at Walmart. What they have in common is their feeling of disenfranchisement and anger. They’re gun owners, and they’re mostly white. They’re gearing up for a race war, a class war.”
“What about the Muslim groups—Al Qaeda, Hezbollah, those guys?” Don asked, trying not to crinkle his nose as he chomped on another cookie.
“They’re dangerous and extremist. Without a doubt,” James said. “We’re keeping an eye on them. I’m talking about these homegrown terrorist groups that are growing in number and power. Their actions keep escalating. The Turks were a small, badly organized, amateur group. We may have stopped them, but they’re just the tip of an iceberg. Stormfront is the rest of the iceberg, underground and hard to break up.”
# # #
Robbie was fed up with his motel room. It was small, and he’d been holed up for two and a half days. His room was a mess. He hadn’t allowed the old lady who had knocked on the door for the past two mornings to clean the room. She had given him a trash bag, and it was filled with pizza boxes, cans, and wrappers of the fast food he’d been eating.
He’d decided to bring his new bike into the room, and it made it difficult to get in and out of the bathroom, but it was safer to have it out of sight of anybody looking for a biker. Not that it really mattered. He knew lots of people were looking for him, but he felt safe here. Early that morning he’d taken the chance to ride to the park where he’d buried the small box filled with cash, thumb drives, two new passports, a debit card and a new driver’s license. He looked pretty good in the ID photos. One of his names was Christopher Brodie. The other was Robert Huffy.
He’d booked a flight to Toronto using the name Huffy. From Toronto he was flying as Brodie to Amsterdam. He’d thought about taking his bike but that required a packing box or a hard bicycle case, and he didn’t want to take the chance of visiting a bike store. So the bike would stay here in the room. Maybe the cleaning lady would be happy to get it.
Using a Wi-Fi hotspot, he’d scrolled through the message boards since Saturday night. The Turks website was down, but there was chatter about arrests made over the weekend, and the death of one of the Stormfront members.
The shootout at the train station had scared him shitless, and he had had to think quick to get out of there. He was pissed that his bomb hadn’t exploded to kill that Arab kid, but at least he’d been able to escape from that situation. He counted himself lucky.
He still hadn’t said good-bye to his mother or brother. He would mail a postcard tomorrow from the airport. Maybe later he’d send them some money. He had almost $10,000 in his bank account, half of it from some of the losers who worked at the insurance company. Thank you, suckers.
If America didn’t want him anymore, it was their loss. He’d hook up with Stormfront in Europe and set himself up as a valuable member of their team—a team that understood that the white man topped the food chain. The FBI had lost its way. That’s what the book he was reading said. It had protected America’s way of life under J. Edgar Hoover, but now the Bureau was full of lackeys for Obama and the other elites.
Some of the Turks had talked about taking back America. Maybe he’d come back someday to help, but for now he was turning his back on Detroit, on Michigan, and on the USA. In the meantime he’d go someplace where a white man could still get respect.
Chapter 35
“I’m glad it’s over, hon.” Mandy looked into Charlie’s eyes. “It’s really good to have you home at night.”
“James says it’s not over.”
“I hope he’s wrong,” Mandy said. “I want to believe in the hope Obama promised us. C’mon outside with me. I mean, us,” she said holding the door for Hamm.
It was easy to believe in hope on this first day of June. They used the grill for the first time since last fall to make veggie burgers and sweet potatoes, and watched new blooms push up in the flower bed around their new fence. Hamm was splayed out on the deck, enjoying the sun that wouldn’t set until almost nine.
Charlie’s phone buzzed with a message.
“I have an appointment for therapy on Wednesday morning,” she reported to Mandy.
“Good. It’ll help you. Hey, why don’t we take a drive? See the sunset over the water?”
“Belle Isle?”
“Yep. Let’s take my car so Hamm can come.”
# # #
The view of Downtown Detroit’s sunset from Belle Isle was always spectacular. The sky behind the Renaissance Center blended oranges, purples, and streaks of red that stretched past the distant Ambassador Bridge. Charlie and Mandy joined scores of other cheerful people enjoying nature’s light show. Some brought chairs, but Charlie and Mandy sat on the thick grass, stroking Hamm who lay between them.
“You know what I’m thinking about?” Charlie asked.
“St. Anne’s?”
“Yep. It’s a gorgeous church. Hard not to think of it when you see the bridge.”
She squinted and traced her finger along the bridge’s trek across the Detroit River to Canada. “I have an idea. Why don’t we do a road trip this spring? Get out of town for a little while. I’d like to spend some time outdoors, and clear my head of these people who hate. You know, we haven’t had a real vacation since we bought the house. Maybe we can go to the U.P. We could rent a house, and hike, and see the waterfalls.”
“That sounds wonderful, and Hamm would really like it too, wouldn’t you, boy?”
Hamm rose to agree and placed his big paws on Mandy’s lap. “Maybe we can ask Ernestine to come along. We could all benefit from a bit of head clearing.”
Charlie reached for Mandy’s hand. “Don’t ever leave me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
About the Author
A Detroit native, Cheryl A. Head now lives on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC. She is a two-time Lambda Literary Award finalist and winner of the Golden Crown Literary Society Ann Bannon Award. In 2019 Head was inducted into the Saints & Sinners LGBT Literary Festival Hall of Fame. She currently serves as a national board member for Bouchercon.
Charlie Mack Motown Mysteries
Bury Me When I’m Dead
Wake Me When It’s Over
Catch Me When I’m Falling
Judge Me When I’m Wrong
Find Me When I’m Lost
Warn Me When It’s Time
Bywater Books
Copyright © 2021 Cheryl A. Head
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61294-208-7
Bywater Books First Edition: June 2021
Cover designer: Ann McMan, TreeHouse Studio
Author Photo by: Leigh H. Mosley
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This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events described by the author are fictitious. No resemblance to real persons, dead or alive, is intended.
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