Bad Company

by P A Duncan

  “You’re right,” he said. “Things are happening here like in the book. We have the Brady Bill. In the book it’s the Cohen Law. Same principle, trampling on people’s gun rights. The New World Order types know they can’t succeed in a country with an armed citizenry. They have to disarm us.”

  “Why’d you read it over and over?” she asked.

  Her eyes locked with his, as if eager for his answer. “It showed me the way,” he said.

  The tip of her tongue circled her lips, and Carroll’s groin reacted again at that glimpse of anticipation.

  “The way to what?” she asked.

  “How to deal with what happened at Ruby Ridge and Killeen. It’s all in the book, the blueprint for what true patriots have to do.”

  A rush of anger washed away his desire, but he let her see him get mad. He wanted to know how she’d handle it. She held his eyes for a few seconds before she thumbed through the book. On the surface no reaction, but he’d seen her eyes glitter before she looked away. He hoped he’d excited her.

  All right, go for it, he thought.

  “If you’re around tomorrow, we could talk again after you’ve read some of it.”

  “I’ve got a bit of work to do tomorrow, but sure.”

  “You work here?”

  Normally, he didn’t want to be in the same state as his mother, but if Siobhan lived here…

  “No. I have to attend a Rotary luncheon, make a speech, collect donations.” She smiled and winked at him, making him grin. “How about late afternoon? We could go somewhere, have a drink.”

  He’d half-convinced himself she’d say no and almost didn’t react to the suggestion. Christ, he was acting like a teenager. “That would be great. You got a car?”

  “A rental.”

  “I’ll leave my car with L.D. He likes the beach. Not many in Arizona where he lives.”

  “Fine. What time?”

  “How about before the crowds hit the show. Three-thirty?”

  “Three-thirty it is. By the front entrance?”

  “Great.”

  If he tried to drag this out more, L.D. would come looking for him. Worse, Carroll would end up saying something stupid.

  “I, uh, better get back to the table. Thanks for lunch,” he said.

  “My pleasure. Thanks for the book.”

  He gathered the trash from their meal. She’d barely eaten half her burger. He stopped, looked at her with an intensity she didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’d better be off myself,” she said, standing. “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said. He watched her walk away.

  The afternoon flew by, but he didn’t notice. He had his first real date in a long time.

  Alexei wasn’t in their hotel room when she returned, but she saw his beach bag was missing. She changed and headed that way. He had stretched out on a chaise longue and was slick with sunscreen, shirtless, and uncaring who saw his scars. However, she was the only woman her age in a one-piece suit to cover most of hers.

  She approached him from behind, noted the empty chaise beside him. His head moved to follow a tanned young woman in one of the smallest bikinis outside the French Riviera. His gaze stayed fixed on the woman’s nearly bare ass until Mai sat beside him and slathered sunscreen on herself.

  “Anything interesting at the gun show?” he asked.

  That was Alexei, never one to apologize for lusting in his heart.

  “While I’m busy undercover among the paranoid, you’re ogling half-naked women.”

  He smiled, eyes straight ahead now. “This espionage work is tough, but someone has to do it. No joy on your subject?”

  “Quite the opposite. He’s trying to sell modified flare guns as an anti-helicopter weapon.”

  He reached into the pocket of his swim trunks, took out a hundred-dollar bill, and gave it to her.

  “That’s an old KGB trick,” he said.

  She tucked the bill into her bag. “You always take the credit for anything innovative. The CIA taught the Mujahideen that trick.”

  “Where do you think the CIA got the idea from? I assume you spoke with him.”

  “We had lunch. He gave me a copy of the book that showed him the way.”

  “The Turner Diaries?”

  “The same. He’s worn out his copy.”

  “Showed him the way to what?”

  “I got a vague answer about fixing the country. No smoking gun. We have a date tomorrow.”

  “You and I?”

  “No. Jay and I, to discuss the book’s significance. At least, he thinks of it as a date.”

  “Interviewing your trophy husband?”

  “Hardly. He was so nervous around me. I made up a story about my mother leaving my father to get him to relax. Mostly he wanted to talk about The Turner Diaries and…”

  “What?” he asked, after her silence.

  Mai looked around. They had a patch of relative privacy, but she lowered her voice. “The first anniversary of the ATF raid in Killeen is at the end of this month.”

  “See what he has to say during your…date.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Not at all. Don’t tease this guy too much.”

  “Hey, hard-bitten IRA soldier, not a bimbo.”

  “He doesn’t know the difference. I’ve had lots of practice handling you, and I’m far more experienced.” He looked at her, eyebrows lifted atop his sunglasses. “How about more practice later? I’ve rested up all afternoon, taking in fresh air and sunshine. I’ll be proportionally enthusiastic.”

  “And that has nothing to do with a constant parade of thongs?”

  “Never.”

  “Well, then, I’m aquiver with anticipation.”

  He laughed at the sarcastic tone, but he turned to her and removed his sunglasses, his unexpressive eyes showing he was all-business now. “I know you don’t like it when I say be careful, so I’ll offer this thought. I don’t trust any of these kooks who think they have to hoard food and guns for some upcoming Armageddon.”

  “Have you looked at our home arsenal?”

  “The guns we have are job-related. These guys can’t eat, sleep, or fuck without their guns.”

  “I think we’ve done all of that.”

  “Mai, don’t joke when I’m making a serious point.”

  “I’m not. I’m pointing out the obvious similarities.”

  “Do you get my point?”

  “You could have simply said, be careful.”

  He turned his head to hide the eye roll. “I’m taking a swim. Afterwards, we’ll go back to the room for a nap.”

  She relaxed in her chaise. “Sleep, Bukharin, will not be part of the equation.”

  2

  Making an Acquaintance

  When Mai pulled up to the front of the convention center, she saw John Carroll frowning as he looked at passing cars. He’d changed from BDUs to jeans and a cotton shirt. He wore a dark blue windbreaker to hide his gun, but Mai spotted it with ease. White socks and loafers were definitely nerdish but dressier than the combat boots from the day before.

  He looked over Mai’s approaching rented Taurus and smiled when he recognized her. After she stopped beside him, he entered, and she caught a whiff of aftershave.

  An exchange of pleasantries, and Mai asked, “How was business today?”

  “Not bad. Sold a few things.”

  In her periphery she saw his long fingers drumming his thighs. Nervousness or a young man’s hyperactivity?

  Earlier in the day, she and Alexei had scoped out the cocktail lounge of a beachside hotel, and Mai headed there. The booths allowed for a more or less private conversation, and the view of the Gulf of Mexico was magnificent.

  On the drive she couldn’t draw Carroll into conversation and wondered if it were shyness or suspicion. Shyness wasn’t a characteristic of the right-wingers she’d researched, but perhaps a drink or two would lubricate his tongue.

  The hostess seated them in a booth with a view of the su
n on the water. After they gave their drink orders to a waitress, Mai said, “I picked this place because I can look at the water. I miss it.”

  Carroll smiled at her and rested his arms on the tabletop, hands clasped. “My dad said we’re Irish. Back a ways. His great-grandfather, I think.”

  “What’s your surname again?”

  “Carroll.”

  Mai feigned her own suspicion. “Last time you said something different.”

  A blush colored his cheeks and tipped his ears pink, and Mai thought him amateurish at this. It was important to keep your aliases straight.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I use Jay Jenkins for the shows in case there are government informants around. I’m John Thomas Carroll. My Army buddies call me J.T. My family calls me Jay.”

  “I see,” she said, letting some suspicion linger. “Do you spell it C-e-a-r-b-h-a-i-l?”

  “No. C-a-r-r-o-l-l. What did you spell?”

  “That’s how you spell Carroll in Gaelic.”

  His stiff posture eased a little. “My spelling’s easier.”

  “It’s pronounced more like Car-hall. It means champion in war.”

  “Wow, that’s cool. I like that. So, I guess yours isn’t spelled D-o-h-e-r-t-y?”

  “No.” She spelled it for him and said, “Irish is a complex language.”

  “Sounds like it. What does your name mean?”

  “Hurtful.”

  “As in causing hurt or being full of hurt?”

  She smiled again. “I’ve done both. Yours is more noble.”

  He blushed again, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I, uh, won a Bronze Star in the Gulf. That’s, like, a couple steps down from a Medal of Honor.”

  “Your name fits, then.”

  The waitress brought a screwdriver for Carroll and whiskey, neat, for Mai. When they were alone, Mai lifted her glass. “Sláinte.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To your health.”

  “Shlansha.”

  “Very good.”

  Silence intervened again after they drank. Carroll glanced around the lounge, assessing everyone present, mostly older folk and vacationers. His face was expressionless, his eyes narrowed.

  Did he think someone had followed them? She looked around for Alexei. He would sometimes pop up after declaring he wasn’t interested.

  No Alexei. No one suspicious at all.

  “So, you said you did some business today,” she said.

  “Not bad. Saturday, Sunday, that’ll be the biggest crowds.”

  “But you sometimes do other work, so you said.”

  “I like to work with my hands.” His eyes came up to her face, and he blushed yet again. “Uh, I mean, I can get things done.”

  “Is L.D. your business partner?”

  “No. He’s not the partner type. He helps me out when he can.”

  Carroll rolled his glass between his long hands, glanced at her, looked away, another blush in place.

  “I, uh, I looked for you. At other shows, I mean,” he said.

  Mai smiled at him. “Did you now?”

  “Yeah. I mean, you said you’d be around the shows and stuff. So, I looked for you. I, uh, was beginning to give up.”

  With a nervous gulp he downed the rest of his screwdriver and signaled the waitress for another. He scanned the room again.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “You can’t be too careful. Aren’t you worried about government agents?”

  “Lad, I can spot a British agent three kilometers away.”

  “I’m talking about U.S. feds.”

  “Well, they aren’t after me. What are they after you for?”

  She’d meant it as a joke, but Carroll was serious when he replied, “Like I said yesterday, my beliefs.”

  “And what are those?”

  “I don’t think this country responds to its citizens anymore. Because some of us want to follow the Constitution as it was written, the government decides we’re troublemakers. You ever hear of Ruby Ridge?”

  Though she knew quite well, she shook her head.

  “About eight months before Killeen, the feds did the same thing to a guy named Randy Weaver. He and his family lived off the grid on a mountaintop in Idaho. It was a hard winter, and he needed money. An ATF informant conned him into sawing off shotguns to an illegal length.”

  “Did he know it was illegal?”

  “Yeah, but he had a family to feed. The thing is, they waited a year to arrest him. They let him out on bail, but they told him one date for court and sent him a letter with a different date. When he didn’t show up for the first date, they issued a warrant for his arrest. You see, they did that deliberately, as an excuse to storm his home and kill him and his family.”

  “But why would they do that?”

  “Weaver and his wife rejected all the U.S. stood for. They wanted to practice their religion their way, live without interference. The government can’t stand that because it wants everyone dependent on it.”

  “I see. What happened?”

  “The U.S. Marshals put the family under surveillance, and—can you believe it—they even considered kidnapping the sixteen-year-old daughter to draw Weaver out.”

  Mai knew about that plan from her research, and it had puzzled her. She’d never known U.S. authorities to act like the KGB. “Kidnapping,” she said. “How’d they come up with that?”

  “From watching the cabin, the Marshals knew… Uh, they knew when, uh, the girls, uh, had their, uh, monthlies. They would sleep in an outbuilding because they believed the Bible said they were unclean.” Carroll’s eyes stayed on his hands, as if he couldn’t look her in the eye and discuss menstruation. “They, uh, figured out the daughter’s cycle and considered kidnapping her as she slept in the shed.”

  “I can’t say I’ve heard of such a thing,” Mai said, and decided to test him a bit. “Sleeping in a separate place because you’re on your period, though. That’s a bit odd.”

  Carroll met her eyes and blushed. “I have two sisters, and sometimes they were so bitchy during their periods, I wished they were in another state. Yeah, those beliefs are pretty far out, but it’s their religion, and we shouldn’t judge.”

  Remarkably tolerant for a right-winger.

  “So, the Marshals were going to use the girl as leverage, then. Did they do it?” Mai asked.

  He shook his head. “Now, I almost wished they had because they ended up killing Weaver’s son and his wife in cold blood.”

  She knew the story. The entrapment of Weaver had been obvious, particularly to the jury that had acquitted him of murder. “Did they kill them all, then?”

  “No, lots of people showed up to support the Weavers, and the media was there. Too many witnesses. But even though reporters were there, the government kept them from reporting it.”

  He didn’t know the reporters she did.

  “But we—folks on the gun show circuit—got the word out about what happened,” he said. “And you know what? Some of the same people who were at Ruby Ridge, the feds, were in charge at Killeen. The same thing happened there, only worse.”

  “What can be done to stop such things?”

  “You read any of that book?”

  “Some.”

  “What we have to do, it’s all there. Like in 1776, we have to fight back against tyranny, show them they can’t walk on our rights or kill their own citizens. If they do that, they pay a price.”

  Mai watched his face as he spoke, and cold rage became icy resolve. But people often talked a good game and did nothing. “Sounds like someone should pay, then,” she said. “I know how good that feels.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Paras, whom we consider agents of the British government, killed my father, remember?”

  “I remember. You got payback for your father?”

  She let her eyes go as cold and hard as his.

  “That I did, lad.” She raised her glass to him and drank.

 
Carroll’s eyes glazed over in lust—she recognized that—but he smiled before he looked away again, his fingers twisting among each other on the tabletop.

  “Are, uh, are you staying here in this hotel?” he asked.

  “No. I stopped in after lunch today and liked the view.”

  “So, uh, how long have you been here? In America?”

  “Six months or so.”

  “How long are you going to stay?”

  “I don’t know, Jay. If I do go home, British Intelligence could have a surprise waiting, something like what happened to your Randy Weaver.”

  His face molded into concern, and he leaned across the table.

  “You need security while you’re here? I have some experience. I was an armored car guard, and my unit provided security for this big general in Desert Storm.”

  She could play the helpless female… Bloody hell, she’d never pull that off.

  “Thanks for the offer, lad, but I’m pretty capable.”

  He lowered his voice. “I can get you a gun, train you on it.”

  Mai smiled. “Bless you, lad, but I’m covered in that area, you might say.”

  “Can I ask what you carry?”

  “Beretta 92F.”

  He sat back in the booth, a half-smile on his face. “I’m impressed. I carry a Glock 21 myself. You current at the firing range?”

  Paddy O’Riordan’s trek through her memory was thankfully brief. “I get some practice in occasionally.”

  “There’s a club here in town I can get us into. I can give you a few pointers. I’m, uh, I’m a good shot.”

  An understatement from the record-breaking marksman at Fort Riley.

  “I suppose a bit of practice never hurt. Not this evening, though,” she said, holding up the whiskey glass.

  “How about tomorrow morning? The club won’t be busy, and the show doesn’t reopen until noon.”

  “What time is good for you?”

  “0800?”

  “That’s very kind of you, lad.”

  “So, uh, I’ll, uh, pick you up, right?”

  “Give me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”

  Mai took a napkin from the stack the waitress had left and took a pen from her pocket, hand poised over the napkin to write. The downward turn of Carroll’s mouth told her he wasn’t happy about the arrangement, but he gave her the address.