“You want to backfill this one?” Averill asked, from the seat of his tractor.
“No, I want to leave this one for easy access.”
“Ayuh,” he grunted. “Just making sure. You gonna do something different, or do you want me to push the stump back in front of it?”
“Let me get out of the way first,” Mike teased, standing and brushing the dust and dirt from his hands onto his jeans.
“This cop’s really got you spooked, don’t he?”
“Yeah, kinda. If I hadn’t moved my money that first week, they might’ve found me already.”
“Maybe you should go buy one of those throwaway phones and give him a call. Ask him what the hell he wants?”
“They could triangulate the signal then, and figure out right where I’m calling from,” Mike told him truthfully.
“So? Drive somewhere a couple hours away, then make the call.”
“The reason I’ve had you doing my shopping for me is because that cube van sticks out like a sore thumb.”
“Here,” the farmer said, pulling a keyring out of the center pocket of his bib, and tossing it to Mike. “Clean yourself up some, and you can take her for a spin. You’ve been cooped up here too long. She’s gassed up, got plates and insurance. Go find out what there is to know, and you won’t be so damn worried all the time.”
Mike gave him a hard look that turned into a grin as he looked at the keyring. A pewter car was attached by chain to a keyring with a distinct Ford emblem.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“She’s a ’65 Mustang. Top to bottom clean as all get out. I expect to get her back in the same condition when you return her. She’s parked just inside my barn.”
Mike looked at the keys, weighing his options. Averill had already given him the cop’s card. At some point, he was going to have to come out of hiding, if for no other reason than to quit hearing his name on the radio news all the time.
“What’s her name?” Mike asked, holding the keys up so they sparkled in the sunlight.
“Brandy,” Averill said, with an evil grin.
“Why Brandy?”
“Was my girlfriend before Lucille.”
Mike tossed the keys up and down in his hand a couple of times and then nodded.
“Climb on then. I’ll wait at your place while you change, and give you a ride over to the barn.”
“Absolutely… And Mr. Averill, thanks.”
“Chuck. You can call me Chuck.”
Mike nodded. Will hadn’t bonded with the old codger, despite their history, but he loved having the ornery old man around.
Chapter 6
Miller & Clay:
Detroit, Michigan
Wednesday, Feb 3rd, 2016
“Do you ever get the feeling that we’re spinning our wheels?” James Miller asked very Special Agent Wayne Clay.
“Is this a rhetorical question, or do you really want me to tell you what I think?” Clay asked, annoyed at life in general.
“No, I think we’re on a wild goose chase here. We know who detonated the bombs, and we know why they did it, yet the President has us tracking down a gun shop owner and an anonymous Facebook group.”
Clay considered that and then looked at his police detective partner for this joint task force. “I get the feeling that your enthusiasm for this investigation has begun to wane.”
“You can say that again!” Miller said, with a smug smirk. “We’re investigating this case on a political lark now, not where the actual facts take us. We’re going to come out in bad shape no matter what we find, or how we do it.”
“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t?”
“Pretty much,” Miller said.
“Well, we’ve been sifting through Facebook, Twitter and related phone calls between persons of interest trying to figure out how to tie everyone together with this group.”
“Anonymous Justice,” Clay clarified.
“Yeah, anonymous is right!”
There was a frustrating aspect to their assignment. What with the terrorist shootings at the church, and then the bomb blasts, and the vigilante killings, law enforcement nationwide was working nearly nonstop, themselves included. They were already severely taxed, without being whisked back and forth across the country at the whim of clueless politicians. First, they’d been given a mandate by the President to track down and bring in Mike Thor. Now, there was talk about Anonymous Justice and Black Lives Matter being domestic terror organizations, so they were supposed to be gathering intelligence on both of them as well.
That would surprise a ton of people, most of all being the BLM founders who’d originally envisioned the movement as non-violent. They hadn’t been able to stop the multitudes of people of all races, who’d just wanted an excuse to take to the streets, protest, burn and loot. It’d gotten away from them entirely. It was starting to happen in cities all across the country. From Los Angeles and St. Louis, to Chicago, Detroit, Flint, Baltimore and Miami, mixed groups of young people, who had nothing, had taken to the streets in BLM’s name, demanding justice. Demanding action. What exactly they wanted justice for depended on upon who the myriad of reporters talked to. Most didn’t know why they were rioting; they were just mad. They did more damage to their own communities than anything else.
Finding these Anonymous Justice people was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Whoever they were, they used unconventional and complicated methods of masking where they were from each time they popped up. Originally, it had appeared to both Miller and Clay that their movement was located in or near Hamtramck, MI and somehow involved Thor’s Gun Shop. Miller still thought that if he could find Mike Thor, he would be closer than ever to finding the first scrap of evidence to prove or disprove their assumption.
“What if we followed the money?” Clay asked.
Miller groaned. That wasn’t simple either. Before they had even really started trying to track down Mike Thor, he had tried following the money.
“Already did that. Thor emptied both his personal and business checking accounts into his PayPal account. From there, he put it all onto a prepaid Visa card,” Miller told him.
“Yeah? Where was that Visa card physically filled and delivered?”
“It was filled online, but picked up at a Walmart in Saginaw.”
“Saginaw,” Clay repeated, scratching his chin. “Did he pick it up?”
“The signature said so,” Miller told him. “We’re still waiting on the surveillance video from the store, though, to verify that.”
“What’s the hold up with that?”
“Waiting for a second subpoena to go through. The first one wasn’t filled out correctly somehow. We’ve got a lot of new people stirred into the mix since the President made his announcement. Nobody seems to know what went wrong.”
“Trust me, I understand. The Detroit field office is swamped. They would have recalled me three times over now if the Prez hadn’t given specific orders for my butt to lead this mess. I think it’s because you pissed him off so bad.”
“Yeah? I just want to do my job. Not to sound clichéd, but I can retire any time I want now. This political shit gets any deeper, or if you Feds or my captain lose sight of the big picture, I’m walking.”
“Whoa, I’m not the enemy here,” Clay said, holding his hands up.
Miller had been getting more and more belligerent lately, and the sleepless nights were wearing on him. Everyone could tell that the detective was running on coffee fumes and anger at this point. Not much gas left in the tank.
“Shit, I know man. Let’s just…”
“Let me work on that second subpoena,” Clay told him. “You know… Do that Fed magic that you flat foots all hate… And get the job done?” he winked.
Miller knew he was being deliberately goaded, but he still appreciated the effort that Clay was making.
“Hey, I hope you can get it. I sent it over to the—”
“Just give me a copy of your subpoena. I’ll u
se a friendly judge. She’ll see me today.”
Miller looked at his new partner, the Federal Agent that he’d been tasked to work with, and grinned. One of the biggest shocks Miller had had was in DC, where he’d found out that Clay was a hit with the ladies. And because of his a lack of ring, he had plenty of female friends.
“Just so you know, this may cost me a dinner,” Clay said, before punching a number in on his phone.
***
“Hey, this is it. There’s your guy. You want me to burn you a video copy, or just his face?” the loss prevention supervisor asked.
The room that housed the computer and video surveillance equipment was small and cramped. With the store manager, assistant manager and the LPS all crowded in with Clay and Miller, it was starting to get uncomfortably warm in there.
“Both please,” Clay said.
“You got it,” Thomas, the loss prevention supervisor said. He handed Clay the DVD a few moments later.
“Thanks, guys,” Clay said, flashing his 5000-watt smile. Miller was already out the door and heading towards fresh air.
“Was that Mike Thor with the woman in that video?”
“No, but I know who it was,” Miller told him, as they walked briskly towards the front of the store.
“Who?” Clay paused near the greeter, trying to slow down Miller’s footrace to the car.
“Somebody I talked to a couple of days ago.”
“Wait, you took the weekend off!”
Outside, the wind bit at them and, although it had been a warm winter, it was still 20 degrees without the wind chill. The look Miller shot Clay was colder yet. The feeling that Miller was holding something back had been bothering Clay; he could tell when somebody was doing that to him. Miller definitely had something, but he was debating whether or not to share it.
“Get in. Let’s get the heater fired up, and I’ll explain.”
They got into the department’s unmarked sedan with a State use plate that screamed COP to anybody paying attention and fired it up. The engine had miraculously kept some semblance of warmth from the two-hour drive from Hamtramck.
“So, you’ve been holding out on me,” Clay accused. He knew that would push his already irritated partner over the edge, and get him some kind of response.
“Yeah,” Miller said, feeling inside his pocket for the brass shell casing. “It’s not horrible, but I’ve played a hunch the last couple weekends since we’ve been back from DC.”
“Yeah? So what was it?”
“You see—” Miller’s reply was interrupted by the iPhone he always carried. “What the hell?” he wondered, as he swiped the phone to answer the unknown number.
“Hello? This is Detective Miller.” He put it on speaker.
“Detective, this is Mike Thor.”
“Thor? You have any idea how many rocks we’ve turned over looking for you?”
“Oh, I can imagine. Listen, I’m not going to stay on long, but I wonder what I can do to make you quit looking for me?”
“So the old man talked?”
“Old man?” Mike asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Oh, you mean Will’s friend? Yeah, he gave me a call, and now here I am, talking to you.”
“He said he didn’t know you.”
“Yeah, well… He’s old and forgetful. And what with terrorists blowing up half of Detroit, and the police letting my gun shop get burned to the ground, do you really expect him to trust the police? Do you expect me to? My employee, no, my friend, was gunned down on your front fucking steps, Detective. It’s dangerous to be out in public. That’s why I’m not around anymore.”
“We need to sit down and have a talk.”
“We’re talking right now Detective. I figure I can give you thirty more seconds of my time.”
“Where are you hiding out at, Mike?”
“Near Cheboygan, at an old girlfriend’s family’s place. It’s cold as shit, but if you can find me up there, Molon Labe, motherfucker.”
“Mike, listen, I’m not the bad guy here. I’m just trying to do my job. Besides, I’ve got the Feds and the ATF on my ass about all the guns and ammunition not being found in the fire. I’ve actually been told, by the damned President himself, to find and interview you.”
“Yeah, I bet that prick wants me found. So his Attorney General can make some shit up, and then throw the book at me. Listen, I don’t want to come in, but I will tell you that my truck is locked, and it’s inside their pole barn. The guns and ammo are in it and safe. There is no need to find me.”
“Mike, you know we can trace this call right?” Miller said, trying to intimidate the man and get him off his game some.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll try. But see, I drove a few hours to get to where I’m at now. I mean… Have fun going through the red tape to get the records from Canada.”
“Son of a bitch!” Clay spat.
“Oh, we’ve got someone else in play here?” Mike asked, a note of concern in his voice.
“Special Agent James Clay, Detroit Field Office, FBI. Sorry, I should have introduced myself earlier.”
“Hey, you’re that guy who got busted and booted out of Tennessee a few years back, aren’t you?”
Clay looked up in shock, then at Miller, and nodded.
“Silence means consent. Well, Agent Clay, FBI G-man… I’ll talk to you guys, but my guns and I are off-grid and staying that way. I don’t mind using burner phones and taking in the sights of Sarnia once in a while, but it’ll get expensive.”
“Listen, we know about the prepaid Visa card you had the old man get you at Walmart,” Miller said. “We can freeze your funds unless you come in and talk to us.”
Laughter filled the car as Mike let them have it.
“I’ll call back in a week, maybe two. You guys have fun getting the funds frozen on that card.”
“You already moved it…” Clay said quietly.
“Hey, I got nothing against cops, but you’re pretty slow. Hell yeah, I moved it. Then I moved it again. Now I have about twenty years’ worth of cash, plus a whole truckload of guns and ammo that are worth, well… a ton. So give me a reason why I shouldn’t just hang up this phone?”
“Because innocent people are dying. Because these vigilantes are making a bad situation even worse. Everything points to it starting with the shooting at your shop.”
Thor’s voice was serious. “No, it started at St. Stanislaus Church. Listen, I’m no racist, but blacks only make up 14% of the population. Muslims make up less than half a percent. Who’s doing all the rioting and shooting? Is it the majority?”
“No. And I’m not arguing that,” Miller said, “but what’s your point? I assume you have one.”
“Unless the Police and FBI can get a handle on the real terrorists, the majority will. And many innocent blacks and Muslims are going to suffer badly unless you get in front of this ball.”
“We’re trying, Mike. That’s why it’s so important for you to come in. We think that—” Clay started, but was cut off by Miller who was holding up a brass shell casing and staring at it.
“Hey, Mike? Who’s Sherman? Andrew J Sherman?”
There was a long pause. “How the fuck should I know?”
The sound of an open line filled the car, and Miller fumbled for the phone. Either the call had dropped, or he’d been hung up on.
“Who’s Andrew J Sherman?” Clay asked.
Miller shivered. It was more than the cold that caused it.
Chapter 7
TH Donald
Ames, Iowa
Monday, Feb 15th, 2016
President’s Day
“I promise you: I’LL MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!” TH Donald shouted into the microphone.
This was how he always opened his speeches.
“Tonight, I’m going to tell you exactly WHY our country is going to hell in a handbasket.
“Abraham Lincoln was undoubtedly one of the greatest Presidents that this country has ever seen. The one we have now will
ultimately go down in history as the very worst. He does, however, like to imagine himself akin to Lincoln. Nothing could be further from the truth.
“On Thursday, November 19, 1863, during the days of the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln delivered one of the best known, most beloved speeches in all of our history. It’s known as the Gettysburg Address. He crafted that speech carefully, to explain that the greatest similarity between the American Revolution, nearly one hundred years earlier in 1776, and the Civil War, was that they were both to ‘make sure that the survival of America's representative democracy: being that a government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.’
“That simple word ‘representative,’ preempting the word democracy, was key. Representative, in today’s terms, means majority. So, were he to make that speech today, he would have said that both conflicts were to ‘make sure that the survival of America’s democracy by majority: being that a government of the majority of the people, by the majority of the people, for all of the people, shall not perish from the earth.’
“Over the next one hundred years after his address, the majority of the people were so busy working to make this country great, that they didn’t pay attention to the minority who weren’t helping. They ignored what the minority had begun demanding, and what they were getting for free. It got to where it wasn’t worth the amount of grief the majority got when they did say something about it. That became known as ‘political correctness.’ Don’t cause any waves, or hurt any feelings. Just give them what they want.
WAKING THE MAJORITY (Anonymous Justice Book 4) Page 4