WAKING THE MAJORITY (Anonymous Justice Book 4)

by Boyd Craven Jr

  “Political correctness emboldened the minority. They clustered together in pockets of concentrated ‘whatever they may be,’ around the country, and elected leaders to represent them, like this Mayor Takisha Jackson who got herself killed yesterday. She had no idea what the hell she was doing. She got people to vote for her by promising them free stuff, just like our President did seven years ago. She talked big and promised big things, and they believed her. The problem was, the majority knew she had no idea what the hell she was talking about, so they just ignored her too. Unfortunately, she did actually have some power through her elected office; like over the city’s police force. She trashed them out, time and again, and refused to let them do their job according to the laws and rules created by the majority. Then, when the time came that she had to tell her constituents NO, they just killed her, without a thought. They weren’t loyal to her at all. They were just loyal to the free stuff she got for them; which by the way, was paid for by the American majority. She deserved what she got, just like those rioters deserved what they got. The American Majority has finally noticed what punks some of the minority groups have become, and they just aren’t going to allow it anymore. So, in this case, they ‘spanked’ them. Hard.

  “Folks, it looks like just about every hundred years in this country, it’s necessary for the American Majority to remind everyone that they are still in control. That’s what I’m here to do if you elect me President. I’ll remind the establishment that they were hired by the majority of the people, to work for the betterment of everyone who works hard and follows the rules.

  “I’ll also remind them that they are NOT allowed to try to change who the majority is, by letting a river of illegals flow into this country. THAT, folks, is the game they’re playing with the wide open borders, in case you didn’t already know. That’s why the Border Patrol isn’t allowed to do their job, and they are actually jailed if they do! I’ll let them do their job. I’ll give them whatever they need to do their job. I’m going to build a wall that will stop that river from flowing across our border, and I’m going to make them pay for it!”

  The crowd went absolutely berserk. This guy was talking their language! This wasn’t the usual crap that politicians spouted. TH Donald wasn’t a politician at all. He was an outsider. One of them. He just happened to be rich as hell.

  ***

  “TH, my dear, that was an outstanding speech you give them,” Victoria told him, back in the jet as they settled down for take-off. “The ‘every one hundred years’ part was a surprise to me, but was very good I think.”

  “Yeah, it surprised me too,” his campaign manager interjected, as he passed by, heading to his office towards the rear of the plane.

  TH waved his hand at him in dismissal, frowning.

  “You liked that, huh?” TH asked his wife. “Our son gave me the idea for that little tidbit! Brandon says that his gun buddies, in the NRA meetings he goes to, sometimes talk about that topic. I did some research on it and got it ready. I hadn’t actually planned on using it tonight, but it just felt right for that crowd. Boy oh boy, did they seem to like it!”

  “Yes. They like it alright. You need to be careful not to sound like a boss; telling people what they do,” Victoria cautioned.

  “Well dear, that’s what I am. From the time I wake up, until the time I go back to sleep, I am the boss. Most people like being told what to do!”

  ***

  The two replacements for Jermane’s spot in Atlanta were all over that speech as soon as Donald had walked off the stage.

  “I promise you; I’LL MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!” the young man mocked.

  “All by myself. I’m so rich, I don’t need anyone’s help,” the middle-aged woman added with more than a little snark.

  They both evidently were getting quite a kick out of hearing themselves talk. Their producer palmed his forehead at them but didn’t say anything.

  “These were the words, just moments ago, that TH Donald opened his speech within Ames, Iowa…”

  “Well, the first part anyhow,” the middle-aged woman interjected with a wink.

  “... where a less-than-full-house crowd came to see what he had to say, in person. Known for his fierce temper first, and his prowess in the real estate world second, all of the real candidates on both sides of the fence are wondering what kind of publicity stunt Mr. Donald intends to pull here. Certainly, none of them take him even the slightest bit seriously…”

  ***

  Marie Krantz in Hamtramck, Michigan was giving her take on TH Donald's speech on the local TV station there:

  “...I have to tell you; I have mixed emotions about this candidate. His ego is so big, and his arrogance so evident, that you want to hate him. The problem with that is, he’s saying exactly what most people I know, myself included, want to hear! All of the rest of them are preaching the same old tired sermon. This guy, this TH Donald, is different. He’s not one of them. The rest of the Republican candidates don’t seem to have much use for his kind! It’ll be interesting to follow this, and see where it goes. Is it a publicity stunt, as some claim? Or is he for real?”

  Chapter 8

  Miller & Clay:

  Detroit, MI

  Thursday, March 3rd, 2016

  “The dossier says Doom and Boom is a Private Military Contractor, specializing in security and hostage rescue…”

  “They go in and get the good guys away from the bad guys. Remember that case a couple years ago where the father snatched up his kid and went back home to Columbia, even though her mom had custody?”

  “Vaguely, why?”

  “Remember why we couldn’t just insist on them coming back?”

  “Diplomatic channels. It was going to take years, but somehow the kid ended up at a Miami police station… Wait, you’re saying that was them?”

  “Yeah. That’s one of their more notorious ones. They snatched the kid from a cocaine cowboy. Rumor is, it wasn’t easy, nor pretty.”

  “Ok, I get that they are mercenaries but—”

  “No, listen, keep looking through there. These guys aren’t just muscle and guns for hire. Look at the profiles of their missions that aren’t classified,” Miller said, pointing to a red tab and then got his eyes back on the road.

  Clay was silent as he flipped through the pages. He’d done a lot of reading on Doom and Boom as they headed towards the far side of the state. Doom and Boom’s receptionist, actually a call center girl, had informed them that the team was currently training in a CQB (close quarters combat) killhouse in the countryside.

  “It seems they only hire out on jobs… Shit, how do I say this…? They aren’t involved in anything that could be construed as shady. It’s straight up protection, and them doing bad things to the bad guys… or…”

  “For a college edujamacated eff bee eye agent and all, you sure talk purty with ‘dem words,” Miller mush-mouthed.

  Clay busted up laughing. The detective had been surly and at his wit's end, so the humor was a surprise, and a welcome one.

  “What I mean is, they only take on the jobs that don’t seem to conflict with some sort of moral code.”

  “Exactly. Now, I’ve got most of the names here, but the main portion of the team is just five or six men.”

  “Yeah, they live together, train together and work together. They have others, but the core group, they’re the ones we’re going to talk to.”

  “So who’s this Sherman guy?” Clay asked.

  Miller had almost worn the dossier on D&B to ribbons in his research, so he was easily able to flip it open with a free right hand as he drove.

  “Tank… Sherman… Got it,” Clay said.

  “The receptionist who called me back said they’d be there half the day. They’re expecting us.”

  “Ok, so should we be worried?”

  “What? Five special forces/special ops men with fully automatic weapons and we’re investigating a murder and their possible connection with Anonymous Justice? Why worry?
”

  “I’m going to call in some favors, have some men—”

  “Clay, I sat on this for a bit,” Miller said, the admission quieting the FBI agent. “I sat on it because I didn’t even know for sure what it was. When they first called me out to that church, I had no clue what I was walking into. I found a random shell casing and ran the fingerprints.”

  “Which led to Doom and Boom, aka Andrew Sherman?”

  “Yeah. Now, this evidence didn’t go through the proper chain of evidence.”

  “What?” Clay all but screamed.

  “At first I was torn. What if it was one of our swat teams, trying to cover things up, making it look like amateurs did it? What if it really was amateurs? What if it was some cops going for payback?”

  “So you were willing to go around the issue because you suspected somebody in blue? I… This is too much,” Clay said, running his hand through his hair and then looking at Miller again, giving him the hairy eyeball.

  “Part of it was that,” Miller admitted.

  “What’s the other part?”

  “Part of me wished that I was one of the shooters who took down the mosque,” Miller admitted.

  “Don’t say that, don’t even think that. I’d have to report it, and my career is already shaky enough with the President…”

  “Listen, Clay,” Miller said in a stern voice, “I did 20 years in the military. I just got my 23rd in the police department. I’m old enough to pull down two pensions, but what do I have to go back to? A crappy apartment? No family to speak of, since I’ve been married to the job. If they fire me, so what? I’m talking about - for once - thinking of more than myself. If that was my family who’d got shot up in the church, you’re damned right I’d want to be in on murdering the folks who were handing out guns and bombs. Hell, I’d like to have gotten intelligence on the folks in the white van that blew up half the city. So don’t tell me you’re worried about your career. I’m just telling you what I feel.”

  “Shit, you had to go and lose your happy thoughts, didn’t you?” Clay asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “There’s been no happy thoughts. Every turn of this investigation has been nothing but a clusterfuck. I honestly think that we’re spinning our wheels, and whoever this AJ is, he’s already gone to ground.”

  “So why are we coming here?” Clay asked.

  The casing hadn’t been entered through the proper chain of evidence, and the fingerprint had been run on the sly. That had floored Clay initially, but his mind was all but exploding with the revelation that Miller was deliberately not trying hard enough. The man had been under a great deal of stress, but he could also see the ‘whatever’ attitude, with retirement at any time.

  “Playing out a hunch. Besides, you wanted to know who Sherman was, and if there’s a link back to Thor, we’re on the right track.

  ***

  “Oh, lookie, lookie. We got us two pretty boys come to play with the big kids,” Diesel’s voice rumbled.

  Doom and Boom were all sitting around a u-shaped bench. Magazines and boxes of ammunition were everywhere, and Miller saw Clay do a double take at the armament. H&K MP5s were laid out, as well as some smaller machine pistols. Nothing that a civilian could buy, but with the right licensing and a gift certificate from Uncle Sam... Miller found himself shivering a bit from the briskness of the morning. It wasn’t cold enough for a heavy coat but was borderline too cold for the way he was dressed.

  “Good morning. I’m Detective Miller, and this is Special Agent Clay,” Miller said, introducing themselves. “Your secretary said we could come out here, and you’d be willing to talk to us.”

  “Sure thing, but we’re timing ourselves right here. If you want to ask the questions, you gotta come inside,” he said, nodding to a plywood constructed, roofless single floor building that had numerous holes in it already.

  “You’re about to fire off live rounds, and practice sweeping that house?” Clay asked.

  “Yeah. You game?”

  Clay pulled his coat back, pulled his Glock service weapon and nodded, a slight smile on his face.

  “You won’t need that. You’ll need these, though,” Tank said, walking over to him and handing him some ear protection.

  Clay looked confused and looked at each man for an answer.

  “We’re the hostages,” Miller told him.

  “You ever do any playin’?” Diesel asked him, as Playboy and Grim stood up, mags going into their MP5s.

  “Sandbox, a long time back.”

  “Grenada,” Diesel said, smiling.

  “Come on,” Clay said to Miller, as everyone started walking towards the building.

  “I’ll show you where to stand, and trust me, sweetheart, you can talk, but don’t you dare move,” Grim said, talking over his shoulder as each man took position outside the door.

  They followed him in, and he led them to a small room about three-quarters of the way back. Two bad guy targets had been set up, and Miller gave him a wave when they were both in place.

  “This is kinda crazy,” Clay mumbled.

  “You went through this training in Quantico,” Miller told him.

  “We didn’t have live ammunition when we used real human hostages.”

  “Trust me, these guys are good. Their folder says—”

  “GOGOGOGOGOGO,” a shrill voice screamed, and then there was a large boom.

  A flashbang flew down the hallway, and Miller and Clay closed their eyes as it detonated just past the doorway. Their ears rang, and smoke started filling the building.

  “So guys, can you tell me how I found a shell casing at the scene of a crime?” Miller called out loudly.

  “Probably cuz somebody got shot,” was what they heard as another flashbang went off, on the other side of the building.

  Strings of gunfire in bursts were almost lost to the deafening explosion of the flashbang.

  “It had Tank’s fingerprint on it,” Clay yelled, probably louder than necessary, but he too was deafened.

  Three and then five figures came through the doorway, the walls behind Clay and Miller turning into toothpicks as the onslaught of gunfire all around them tore up the plywood. Every man was firing and, when they stopped, Miller and Clay shook their heads.

  “Should have worn those,” Playboy said, pointing to the ear protection in Clay’s hands.

  Miller coughed; the smell of cordite was strong and filled the air like a fog.

  “So how was your fingerprint found on a shell casing at the scene of an execution?” Miller asked, and stepped away from the wall they had been rooted to a few moments earlier.

  “No clue, man. What kind of shell casing was it?”

  “9mm, same as what you’re firing right now.”

  Tank looked down at his H&K and then back up to the task force agents. “Probably because I do a ton of reloading. I do that to keep my range time down, and get better access.”

  “Better access?” Clay asked.

  “Yeah, there was this gun range by where we all stay at. When I’d get anxious, I’d go down there and blow off some steam. Owner lets me do it time to time because I do a lot of his reloading for his target ammo. It’s relaxing.”

  “What gun range is this?” Clay asked.

  “The one you guys let burn down,” Diesel rumbled. “Thor’s in Hamtramck.”

  “Bingo,” Miller thought, “there’s the connection.”

  “So honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if you found my prints on just about everything… except Mike don’t like people to shoot rifles in there. He doesn't mind our carbines, but he’s really picky about his range. Well, he was.”

  “I just found one print, on one casing,” Miller said. “Yours.”

  “Shit, who knows, man. People buy reloads there, and don’t always shoot them all up. When did this happen anyways?”

  Miller told them, and the team broke into big broad grins.

  “Oh yeah? That mean something to you?” Clay as
ked, getting the sinking feeling that they really should have called for that backup. Just in case.

  “Yeah, we were in Syria the week before, and I think after a day or so of rest after travel, we got called to Qatar. See, they had this Arabian princess, and Playboy here was almost caught diddling royalty, so we nearly needed protection ourselves as we cut that mission short.”

  “Qatar?”

  “How long does it take to travel back and forth from there?” Miller asked. “So we can make sure the timelines match up.”

  “Well, we ain’t rich and shit,” Diesel interrupted, “but usually a whole day's flyin’.”

  “Why would being rich matter?” Miller asked, already having an idea.

  “Because these Saudis, Syrians, and Qataris… They all rich with oil money and have their own planes. Some of them even have Lear jets. Shit, I’d love to be rich and have my own plane, where I don’t gotta check no bags.”

  Diesel’s smile was so big that the sight of so much white teeth flashing was making Miller a little uncomfortable. Still, much of this would be easily verifiable. Even if he wanted to really investigate this fully, which he wasn’t sure he actually did anymore.

  “That’s not too bad then. Say, guys, we’ll check it out, make sure it’s all good and hopefully you won’t hear from us again.”

  “Say, Miller, you a shooter?” Playboy asked suddenly.

  Clay and Miller had been walking towards the small doorway when Miller stopped and turned around.

  “Not anymore, why?”

  “You didn’t flinch. If I had to guess, you been in the shit.”

  “So deep, it’d make your eye’s turn brown,” Miller replied, and got a couple chuckles from the team.

  Both Clay and Miller had gotten a look at the wall and targets behind them. A cross had been shot into the vitals region of both bad guy targets.

  “Want to give an old man a turn? Just shooting paper? No hostages?”