Break

by Ty Patterson

  Gunner’s smile was feral. ‘My people can start a crime wave in the country. Target minorities and their businesses. Take that and run with it. Strong government. Strong cops. That will be your message.’

  Mease stared at him. Of course!

  25

  Mease took the cup from the tray and sipped his coffee.

  They had hired Farley and Parsons once the campaign gained momentum. The same vetting procedure, along with a new wrinkle. Everyone in the campaign had to sign a tight confidentiality agreement.

  The men were good, experienced campaigners who had worked on several high-profile candidacy runs and delivered.

  They brought in the experts, fundraisers, the people profilers, pollsters, videographers, influencers, media managers, bloggers. Key campaign team members traveled with Rubin all over the country and appointed volunteer cells to statewide activity.

  TV ads, billboards, newspaper advertising, leaflets—the Rubin campaign had everything that the mainstream parties had.

  No one other than a highly vetted inner circle of people on the candidate’s team knew of Mease’s existence. One of Rubin’s companies, a technology firm in Silicon Valley, had erased the Rising Lions’ internet history. That had effectively turned Gunner and his people into ghosts. It had removed all traces of Mease as well, after his release from prison. Nothing existed of him on the internet. DMV had no record of him, since he didn’t own a vehicle or have a license. Social Security had a name for the address he lived at, but it wasn’t Doug Mease.

  ‘I met our friend.’

  The candidate’s eyes sharpened.

  ‘I think we agreed we wouldn’t meet him. Not until this was over.’

  ‘He’s in town.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I needed to get out of the apartment. Needed some air. Relax. No one saw us. I followed security procedures.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s good.’

  He didn’t tell the candidate about Davis. That was a detail Rubin didn’t need to know. Not when he was embarking on a tour of several cities.

  ‘This wave Scott’s talking about,’ he mused. ‘Our friend could help.’

  ‘Like what he proposed when we met him first?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I like it,’ Rubin said after a while. ‘Does he have the people?’

  ‘The Lions have grown; you know that. One reason for that is the way Gunner works. He’ll bail out anyone who goes to prison. If the judge doesn’t grant that, he’ll work on his connections and ours and try to lighten the sentence. Worst case, someone goes to prison, he’ll make sure their families are taken care of. That’s how he gets loyalty. And that oath.’

  ‘He’s taken on some disposables as well, hasn’t he?’

  Disposables. Youngsters of different ethnicities. Labeled that, because that’s what they were for the gang. They used them for street-level activity, no great loss if they were arrested or killed. Those recruits never rose higher in the gang.

  ‘Yeah. He needs to, to expand.’

  ‘Do it. Whatever idea Scott comes up with will be on top of Gunner’s.’

  * * *

  Mease met the Lions’ man in Melrose, in the parking lot of an abandoned building. Just the two of them, with several Lions guarding the place. It was owned by one of Rubin’s companies and was empty that time of night.

  The car rocked on its springs whenever the large man shifted.

  ‘A problem?’ he asked.

  ‘The polls,’ the strategist explained. ‘We’re behind.’

  ‘Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? The lead narrows as the election nears.’

  ‘It’ll be difficult to make up if the gap’s too big. The Veep hasn’t done anything wrong so far.’

  ‘That’s because Morgan’s campaigning for him,’ Gunner scoffed. ‘The President’s popular. It’s natural that some of that will rub off on the vice president.’

  ‘Agreed, but nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘You want us to get active on the street?’

  ‘It will help. You have people you can afford to lose?’

  Gunner’s nails rasped on his stubble as he scratched his jaw. ‘I’ll need to send felons,’ he figured aloud. ‘That will get the maximum impact.’

  ‘Yeah, and they’ll have to be white.’

  ‘I can find those. Good people who won’t squeal. Jew-owned joints? Black, Indian, Chinese as well?’

  ‘That will help. Not too many, though. We might need more waves later on. I’ll work on the cops and judges, the ones who know about us, once there are arrests.’

  ‘Do that.’

  ‘What about Tizzard? You’re in touch with him?’

  ‘Eric? We’re best buds.’

  Eric Tizzard, another felon, a prominent white nationalist in the country.

  ‘Get him to organize a rally. Anywhere.’

  ‘I can make it turn violent.’

  ‘That’ll be even better.’

  ‘Heck, I would have gone on the stage myself, but I’m dead!’ he snickered.

  It had been Mease’s idea, once Gunner had joined forces with them. Killing him had been easier to arrange than anticipated. There had been a bar fight, which spilled over into the parking lot.

  It had been carefully orchestrated. A Cuban gang was cutting into the Lions’ business in Miami. Gunner had decided to take him out. He and his lieutenant started the fight with the man, dragged him out and killed him. They slashed his face beyond recognition, cut his head off and burned his body, leaving its charred remains. The lieutenant was the sole witness and testified that the dead man was his former boss, Jeff Sheller. Friendly cops ensured that his witness statement held.

  Mease had also convinced the Lions’ founder to erase his tattoo. Gunner cottoned on instantly. He got his ink lasered away and ordered his highest ranks to do the same. New, white recruits were explicitly forbidden from tattooing themselves. That was part of the oath, too.

  He put a new structure in place. He personally appointed every street-level boss, who could recruit members however they wished, as long as a significant percentage were white. The leaders could call their gangs anything except the Lions. No one bucked his orders. His authority was such that no arrested or convicted gang leader gave up the outfit’s real name.

  Gunner lived in the shadows, never appearing on law-enforcement radar. He had proven a worthy ally, Mease and Rubin’s invisible ace.

  ‘I’ll get onto it,’ he promised. ‘I’ll make contact with Eric. The earlier the better, I guess?’

  ‘Yeah. What about Davis?’

  ‘I’ve sent a replacement. He’s taken over that gang. He’s smart. Our business won’t suffer in Brownsville.’

  Mease gripped his shoulder and left the rendezvous. He hit the street and shivered in the cool air. Drew his jacket tight around him and raised its collar.

  There were benefits to being anonymous. No one associated him with Rubin. He could walk the streets alone without being followed by reporters.

  He looked up at the night sky and spotted a shooting star. Mease was neither spiritual nor religious, however that sight felt like an omen to him.

  Destination White House was coming together.

  26

  Paperwork.

  When Cutter had joined Arnedra and started the fixing business, he hadn’t anticipated the filing, the invoices, the ledger maintenance that came along with it. All the small things that made a business tick.

  He worked with his partner for several hours in the morning and, when everything was in order and to her satisfaction, sat back and stretched.

  ‘Darrell?’ she reminded him.

  ‘He’s stayed away from the gang.’ He had shadowed the student the previous day. Another early return home for the boy.

  ‘He’s done with the gang?’

  ‘Can’t say. He’s stubborn.’ He opened a drawer and took out his Glock and kydex holster. ‘I’ll be gone a couple of days.’


  ‘ADX?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He had told her about Difiore and Quindica’s visit. There were no secrets between them.

  ‘Those two sound feisty.’

  ‘They are,’ he said with feeling. ‘It was bad enough having Difiore on my case. Now there’s a Fed too!’

  Her peal of laughter accompanied him as he went down to the basement.

  Nope, no cops, this time. He checked the line of parked vehicles just in case. These law enforcement officers were wily.

  He climbed into his vehicle and set the navigation to Newark Liberty International Airport. Twenty minutes. The satellite didn’t give him a quicker route.

  He drove through Soho and Hudson Square and out of the city through the Holland Tunnel, lights reflecting off its ceramic tiles, casting a glow on his face.

  He tuned his radio when he emerged. Found Arethra Franklin, the Queen.

  When the river was deep, I didn’t falter.

  Powerful lyrics that had comforted him when he was lost after Riley. They carried him to the airport.

  He parked his SUV in the long-term lot and went to the terminal building. Of all the airports that served the city, he disliked Newark the most. It was small, in a perennial state of construction, and didn’t have the feel of other airports. He got no sense of adventure when he traversed through it.

  He cleared security and searched for his gate. Strode to it, a tall figure flowing through human traffic like a stream of water, naturally finding the easiest passage.

  He paid for an upgrade: a window seat and more leg room. It didn’t make much of a difference, considering the size of the aircraft, but he would take whatever little luxuries he could get.

  He looked out as the aircraft took off, defied the laws of gravity, and surged into the sky. The city grew tiny and disappeared from sight, though he could still feel its pull.

  A gravitational force that seemed to draw people from all over the world to it.

  * * *

  Denver, first stop. Time for coffee and a comfort break. He brushed off conversational attempts by another passenger, grabbed his paper cup, took his first swallow, and searched for the gate.

  There was just enough time to finish his drink before his boarding call was announced.

  The second leg of travel was so short that it felt as though he had barely buckled in before his flight was landing at Colorado Springs Airport.

  When he emerged from the aircraft, which had parked close enough to the terminal that passengers could walk in instead of taking a shuttle bus, he breathed in the crisp air. Brilliant blue sky and bright sunlight and a vast expanse of space, the kind of which he never saw in his home city. And there in the distance was Pikes Peak, the highest mountain in the Southern Front Range of the Rockies. A fourteener, the summit was supposedly the second most visited peak in the world.

  Cutter had his doubts about that claim, but heck, who was he to argue with the state’s tourism board?

  He hired a vehicle in the airport. Four pm. Not enough time to get to the prison. He drove to the city and stayed overnight.

  He met Horstman the next day.

  27

  Before flying, Cutter had called a three-star general at the Pentagon, who had pulled strings that resulted in a member of the security personnel looking up from his screen and nodding when Cutter arrived at ADX. His name was on the visitor list.

  He folded his shades and was escorted inside by a prison officer, someone new to him, to a small room next to the warden’s office, not where the inmates met family and friends.

  Two chairs, a metal table separating them, the furniture bolted to the floor. A jug and two glasses of water were the only embellishments.

  ‘You need anything?’ the prison officer asked.

  Cutter couldn’t help smiling. The general’s got juice, that’s why he’s being polite. Warden must have instructed him.

  ‘Nope.’

  He waited. Watched a spider crawl up the wall. Similar insects had kept him company in his cell.

  A clanking of chains and a shuffle of footsteps. Two guards escorting the man he wanted to meet. They pushed him inside the room indifferently and shut the door. They’ll be waiting outside, alert for any noise, ready to break up any fight.

  ‘Jake.’ He greeted his friend and hugged him over his cuffed hands.

  ‘You missing this place?’ the inmate responded sardonically.

  Cutter studied him. The prisoner was lean, pale from the lack of sunlight, stubble over his cheeks. His eyes were sunken, but bright. Faded tattoos on his arms and above his vest.

  Horstman had stopped inking himself once he found his faith. He didn’t preach it. Didn’t force his beliefs on others. Accepted that his religion wasn’t the only one. His calm manner was what drew other inmates, and his explaining his faith, breaking it down in simple, relatable language, was why he had gained respect.

  ‘I missed you.’ Cutter reached out and held his friend’s hands, which gripped him back. ‘How are you holding up?’

  ‘You know me, Cutter. One day after the other. Prisoners come and go. I’ll die in here.’

  No drama in his voice. He had long accepted what he had done and the consequences. Knew that whatever he did wouldn’t bring back the couple. He carried that burden every moment of his life, but at the same time, didn’t allow that to drag him down.

  ‘You made a life for yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I take on cases … where I can help people.’ He broke it down for his friend, what he did in New York.

  ‘A fixer, huh?’ Horstman smiled. ‘I like it.’ His face turned serious. He jerked his head in the direction of the cells. ‘What you did there … it brought you peace?’

  I told him who I was once Mansoor was dead. He had secured a last meeting with the convict before leaving prison and then had revealed his identity and why he had been in ADX. The inmate hadn’t been surprised.

  ‘I knew there was something different about you,’ he had replied.

  * * *

  ‘You didn’t come here all the way from New York just to see me.’

  ‘No. It’s Gunner. I need to know everything about him.’

  Horstman’s face tightened. He glanced involuntarily at the ceiling.

  ‘Recording devices are turned off.’

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gunner’s dead, last I heard.’

  ‘His Lions are still here?’

  ‘Some. They’re serving life too. That gang’s disbanded, though. They don’t even call themselves that anymore. Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘A few Lions have surfaced in New York. They targeted Jews, Asians—you know who they go after. Those arrested got light sentences, a few died, and some even got away.’

  ‘They said they were from that gang?’

  ‘No, but their ink gave them away.’

  ‘That’s a common enough—’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But their victims. All of them minority communities. Feels like Gunner’s outfit is back in play.’

  ‘You think someone’s started the gang again?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘I would have heard something.’

  A shadow crossed his face.

  ‘What is it?’

  Horstman lifted a finger for quiet. He looked away, his eyes deep in thought, and then sighed.

  ‘Bull.’ He leaned forward, his lips barely moving. ‘One of the prisoners here, on life. He was a Lion.’ He snapped his fingers, remembering. ‘You know him!’

  Cutter searched his memory. Nicknames and faces. ‘Slim build? Broken nose? They call him that because he’s not built like one?’

  ‘That’s him. He comes to me often. We talk. He said something that didn’t make sense. Not until you came here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We were talking about life after death and I told him there were religions that believed we had several lives. Beliefs, faith, that kind of discussion. He said he knew o
ne person who had come back from the dead on this earth, in this world. No magic about it. I made a joke and he turned serious, insisted that it was true and said I knew that person. He clammed up when I pressed. I let it go. Didn’t think much of it. You know how it is in here. It’s not hard to lose touch with reality.’

  ‘How close was he to Gunner?’

  ‘Very. He was in the kill group, to get me. You fought them off, remember?’

  Cutter nodded. ‘Can you find out? Discreetly?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  No protests. No pushback that prisoners confided in him and he couldn’t misuse their trust. Ripper had his own code. Doing right was part of it.

  ‘Leave a message with the warden. He’ll get back to me. Don’t be obvious about me.’

  ‘I’ve been here a long while, Cutter,’ Horstman said with a wry smile. ‘I know how communication works here.’

  * * *

  Cutter didn’t pay attention to the scenery on the drive back to Colorado Springs. The mountain range was in the distance, fleecy clouds around it, postcard-perfect. But none of it registered.

  He was thinking about the bar on Livonia, the parking lot and the Suburban. That large silhouette, the bald man.

  It was Gunner. He was sure of it.

  The man had come back from the dead.

  28

  ‘Difiore.’

  ‘We need to meet.’

  ‘You found something?’

  ‘Lunch. There’s a bar near Trinity Church.’

  ‘We’ll be there. If you’re buying.’

  ‘I am sure you and Quindica can claim expenses.’

  ‘We can’t feed taxpayers, Grogan. Meaning you.’

  Cutter shook his head and hung up. The cop always had to have the last word.

  * * *

  He had returned late the previous night. Had read up on what the media had covered about Gunner’s death. It was cut and dried.

  Had woken up and perused the same headlines and articles. They hadn’t changed overnight.